#Schofield fire

[wausaupilot]

JUST IN: Residents displaced in Schofield apartment fire

One resident said he escaped the blaze but left all his belongings, including his shoes, behind.

Wausau Pilot & Review Crews on scene at an Oct. 7, 2024 fire on Grand Avenue in Schofield. Photo: Wendy Skola/Wausau PilotCrews on scene at an Oct. 7, 2024 fire on Grand Avenue in Schofield. Photo: Wendy Skola/Wausau PilotCrews on scene at an Oct. 7, 2024 fire on Grand Avenue in Schofield. Photo: Wendy Skola/Wausau PilotAn Oct. 7, 2024 fire on Grand Avenue in Schofield. Photo: Wendy Skola/Wausau…

[hinkepink]

a dress in the mess and a life forever changed

[mariocki]

New Scotland Yard: Fire in a Honey Pot (1.8, LWT, 1972)

"You make it sound very convincing."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your Mr. Logan was seen at the club on the afternoon before it burnt."

"Oh, now, don't ask me what could have taken him there, to a place like that."

"You mean you've never heard of the protection business?"

"Isn't that what you're in?"

[m-ultraarticles]

This Morning bloodbath as ITV bosses plot clear out in feud fallout - and it's not just Phillip Schofield in firing line

PHILLIP Schofield faces the axe from This Morning — amid a “seismic” summer shake-up. Insiders say many believe the time is finally up for Philwho has hosted the ITV juggernaut since 2002. 3 Phillip Schofield faces the sack from This Morning after 21 years on setCredit: Pixel8000 3 The This Morning pair awaited for the results of the TV choice awards with boss Martin FrizellCredit:…

[readychilledwine]

✨️What Readychilledwine's favorite SJM males would call you✨️

💝Just a little headcanon of what my favorite males would call you as their mate. This is part 1 because tumblr limits how many images you can post 💝

Warning - she's long because of the fanart, but I figured we all deserve some eye candy today

(P.s. fanart is credited unless I could not find the creator, if you happen to know, please comment so I can add it.)

✨️Acotar✨️

Aside from Azriel, all fanart in this section is from our beloved Mads Schofield. The Azriel fanart is from Zoe Holland

RHYSAND :

💜 darling, love, high lady, my star 💜

Cassian :

❤️sweetheart, babe, wifey, princess ❤️

Azriel :

💙 my salvation, dove, angel, sweetness, amor💙

Eris:

🔥my fox, little lady, my spark, my love, my fire🔥

Lucien:

🧡my lady, kitten, honeybee, beautiful, my best half🧡

Tamlin :

💚petal, my rose, my lady, my dear, little Wife 💚

Tarquin :

🐚seashell, princess, my better half, treasure, my pearl🐚

Helion

☀️ temptress, my sunflower, sunspark, my queen☀️

💝💝Peep part 2 for Crescent City and Throne of Glass💝💝

General taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanager @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr

[blueiscoool]

Notre-Dame Restoration Reveals Renaissance Poet's Coffin

The tomb of one of France’s best-loved early poets has been discovered during post-fire restoration work in Notre-Dame cathedral.

Scientists say they are nearly certain a lead coffin found beneath the transept is that of Joachim du Bellay, who died in Paris in 1560 at the age of about 37.

The 2019 fire, which destroyed Notre-Dame’s roof and spire, has provided a rare opportunity for archaeologists. Their findings will be on display at an exhibition from November, shortly before the cathedral’s re-opening.

Born near Angers in western France around 1522, du Bellay was – with Pierre de Ronsard – founder of a circle of poets known as La Pleiade which championed French, rather than Latin, as a language of poetry.

It was known from records that du Bellay was buried in Notre-Dame, where he had served as a minor clerical official. But his tomb has never been found.

Analysis of the skeleton inside the lead coffin revealed it to be of a man aged about 35, who suffered from bone tuberculosis in his neck and head, and spent a lot of time in the saddle.

Du Bellay suffered in later years from deafness and debilitating headaches – symptoms consistent with the researchers’ findings. It is also known he was a regular rider, having notably made the journey from Paris to Rome on horse.

One remaining question is why the body was where it was, and not in the side-chapel where it was recorded as being interred.

One theory is that it was moved to the new site after his name became famous with publication of his collected works some years after he died.

Du Bellay is still taught in French schools, and a few of his poems are widely-known.

The most famous Heureux qui comme Ulysse (Happy he who like Ulysses) is about nostalgia for one’s childhood home.

By Hugh Schofield.

[companion-showdown]

Family Feud Nominations, Who is the Best Doctor Who Family

If I've missed a character out of one of the families let me know (within reason, I imagine all these families are massive in the EU, so prioritise tv or significant characters)

Currently, the only rule is no families may inculde anyone who is even ambiguously The Doctor, it'll get super complicated super fast imo

Any characters, eg River, who can link up multiple different families to create a single massive family unit will be treated on a case by case basis. If it is possible to pick one of the smaller family units that they are a part of to include them in while not including them in any of the others (in a way everyone will agree at least makes sense) they will be included in that family only, otherwise they will not be included

Please bare in mind when you are nominating that I am hoping to keep the number of nominations under 64 to run this as a mini-tournament. This is not a hard rule so if nominations do exceed 64 its not a big deal, just something I'd like everyone to bare in mind

Nominees

Foreman-Campbell (Susan, David, Alex)

Chesterton-Wright (Ian, Barbara, implied to be married after they leave)

McCrimmon (Jamie, Heather, V.M.McCrimmon, various others)

Waterfield (Victoria, Edward (father))

Lethbridge-Stewart (Kate, The Brigadier, Doris (Brig's wife in Battlefield), Archibald Hamish (TUAT), Gordon (Kate's son in Downtime), Kadiatu, The Great Intelligence, Lucy Wilson)

Grant/Jones (Jo, Cliff, Santiago (Jo's grandson in Death of the Doctor))

Smith (Sarah-Jane, Lavinia (aunt), Brendan Richards, Luke, Sky, Mr Smith, K9 (they are her family and I will not be hearing otherwise), Barbara, Eddie (parents in Temptation of Sarah-Jane Smith))

Leela, Andred, Veega, Rayo

Adric and Varsh (brothers)

Nyssa, Tremas, and Kassia (daughter, father, step-mother)

Jovanka (Tegan, Vanessa (aunt in Logopolis), Colin (cousin in Arc of Infinity))

Turlough (Vislor, Malkon (brother in Planet of Fire))

McShane (Ace, Audrey (mother), Kathleen (grandmother), Liam (brother))

Tyler (Rose, Jackie, Pete, Tony (baby mentioned in Journey's End), no I will not be adding the metacrisis to this list)

Another Smith (Mickey, Rita (grandmother))

Slitheen

Harkness (Jack, Grey, parents, Alice Carter (daughter), Steven Carter(grandson))

Isolas (Fear Her)

Jones (Martha, Francine, Clive, Tish, Leo, Leo has a baby as well, Adeola Oshodi)

The Family of Blood

Redfern-Smith (Joan, John (various), possible dream children and grandchildren)

Shafe Kanes (from Utopia, Kristane, Beltone)

Mott-Noble-Temple (Donna, Sylvia, Wilf, Shaun, Rose)

The Adipose

Pond-Williams (Amy, Rory, River, Brian, Anthony, Amy's aunt and parents)

Owens: (Craig, Sophie, Stormageddon Dark Lord of All)

Gillyflower (Mrs Gillyflower, Ada)

Paternoster (Jenny, Vastra, Strax)

Oswald (Clara, Ellie, Dave (parents), grandmother, and I'm going to say Danny makes the cut, Orson)

Potts (Bill, Mother, Moira (foster mother))

O'Brien-Sinclair (Graham, Ryan, Grace, Aaron (Ryan's father))

Khan (Yaz, Najia (mother), Hakim (father), Sonya (sister), Umbreen (grandmother))

Lewis (Dan, Eileen (mother), Neville (father))

Swarm and Azure

Bel, Vinder and their as yet unborn child

Sunday (Ruby, Carla, Cherry, many many foster siblings)

The TARDIS and Lolita

Little House of Cwej

The House of Lungbarrow (Grandfater Paradox, Qenceus, Inocet, various cousins, Irving Braxiatel, Maggie Matsumoto, Ulysses, Penelope GAte, Anna Joyce)

The House of Dvora (Morbius, The War King, Thessalia, Romana, various others)

Langer (Clyde, Carla (mother), Paul (father))

Jackson (Maria, Alan, Chrissie)

Chandra (Rani, Haresh, Gita)

The Wu Diaspora (Cindy Wu and her clones)

Munmeth and Mutmunna (Medicine Man)

Ada and Alice Obiefune

Who (Susan, Barbara, Louise)

Jones-Davies (Ianto, Rhiannon, Johnny, David, Mica)

Summerfield (Bernice, Issac, Claire, Jason Kane, Peter, Wolsey, Keith, Rebecca, Cousin Eliza, Benedict I-IV, Christine)

Miller (Lucie, Pat (aunt))

Schofield (Hex, Cassie, Hilda)

House of Witforge (Narvin, Lenaris, Helico, Narvin's father, Rexin)

Faction Paradox

Pollard (Charley, Louisa, Richard, Margaret, Edward Grove, The Sound Creature)

Mesh Cos, Lon Shel, Julian White Mammoth Tusk

Cooper-Williams (Gwen, Rhys, Anwen, Geraint, Mary (Gwen's parents))

Chenka (Liv, Tula, Kal, Garlon Rosh)

Sinclair (Helen, Albie, Trev Bailey)

Forrester

Proctor (Cleo, Jordan, parents)

Nominations will be open until Midday Friday (03/05, 12:00 BST (GMT/UTC +1)), I will try and give a more specific time then

[stereax]

Any insight or reading recs on what's going on with pwhl minnesota? I was planning to start following this upcoming season and can't really make sense of the headlines coming out of there.

The very TL;DR is: GM Natalie Darwitz was ousted by the league only days after PWHL Minnesota won the Walter Cup after losing a power struggle between herself and coach Ken Klee. She had not initially wanted Klee as coach, but had to turn to him as her original choice abruptly quit weeks before the season started. Notably, team captain Kendall Coyne Schofield, as well as other team veterans, sided with Klee and against Darwitz. Additionally, other Minnesota coaches, who sided with Darwitz, were also fired. Afterwards, at the draft, Klee drafted Britta Curl in the second round, who has liked and posted homo- and transphobic, as well as racist, stuff on Twitter. In the wake of all this, reports have come out of Klee's abusive coaching practices, such as calling players the r-slur and not allowing players who wouldn't be playing in games to practice longer on the ice because they were "taking time" from the "important" players, while simultaneously giving Coyne Schofield and other veterans special privileges such as conducting their own workouts away from the rest of the team.

Here's a link to my recent Tumblr post on the topic that itself has a few Twitter posts. Here's that article about Klee being toxic in the locker room. Here's a quick summary of Darwitz, Klee, and Coyne Schofield. Here's an article about the other coaches being fired, where it's claimed Klee is trying to consolidate power in Minnesota. Here's a more general article about all of this mess. Here's an article about the Curl pick.

Now, I'm not a PWHL-forward blog. I primarily focus on the NHL, and I'm not someone who follows the PWHL more than what I find when I'm doing my beat reporting or what my friends post about. As such, I do open the floor here to any blogs that know more about the PWHL to give a better explanation than I'm able to.

[grapefruit-personified]

Another book review with grape

“As fast as her” by Kendall Coyne Schofield

So I’m fairly confident this is classified as middle grade nonfiction/autobiographical so I try and go easy on writing and pace as it’s for children.

I would give it a 4/5⭐️

I think it is well written especially for their target audience.

Now for the contents. I will say, the amount of emotional and mental ab*se she and other players went through is insane. And you can tell it was the norm by the way Kendall talks so nonchalantly about it. Kind of puts into perspective the perceived relationship with Ken as he was the present coach leading up to the teams 2017 boycott and how to the players he was fired out of nowhere.

It’s a very easy short read that I do suggest. I think it shows a side to Kendall that isn’t always the focus and that’s the charity work she has been doing for nearly a decade.

[the-physicality]

the whole situation is so off to me, especially since Minnesota fired their coach right before the season and Ken Klee was actually one of the options for GM

yeah

We don’t know that min fired their coach right before the season, just that he left for family reasons (which based on the option for darwitz to say she left this time could have been a cover up) (unless I missed something non speculative) Apparently that guy was darwitz' first choice.

I think it is sus that Klee was an option to gm, became coach, and will now be taking on that role in the draft

some players [coyne schofield mentioned] taking klees “side”. though at least 2 players were uninformed about any moves

Minnesota had 2 notable gm moves related to team composition- very homegrown team and the jaques tapani trade which I think [my opinion] helped jaques and helped Boston. Obviously min beat Boston (I wasn’t watching).. curious if there are thoughts that it wasn't the most competitive team for those reasons. we also know that boston was pretty beat up [several players requiring surgery!] and that their reverse sweep of toronto happened after spooner was taken out with injury.

Me purely speculating here: min went on 2 substantial slides- one without heise [this was more of a first falter bc they were undefeated for a while] and ones post worlds... people chalked that up to not having enough depth after/during potential injury but the only reason you say that is if your depth isn't producing... if your depth isn't producing is that a team composition issue [gm] or is that a line composition issue [coaching]?

to me a lot of this sounds like some interpersonal issues because if it was a fireable offense, /hopefully/ she wouldn't be offered an intraleague move. It also seemed like the league got scooped on this.. freedom of the press etc.. and that they wanted to announce the ny coach first and then a lateral move for Darwitz in a positive light .. it is interesting that it seemed to already be decided that she wouldn't be at the draft [which is happening monday] so like was she just going to not be there or ??? because it would be more sus for them to put out a press release over the weekend or hours before the draft.

minnesota star tribune

the athletic

inforum

12ft.io [to break the paywall] / increase readability

[ias2xoo]

☞𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐀𝐫𝐞

𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴; will schofield

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨; angst, war trauma, ptsd, arguments, smut included

..••°°°°••..

“ˢᵒᵐᵉᵈᵃʸ ᵈᵃʳˡⁱⁿᵍ, ˢᵒᵐᵉʷʰᵉʳᵉ

ⁿᵉᵃʳᵉʳ ᵒʳ ᶠᵃʳ

ᵈʳᵉᵃᵐˢ ʷⁱˡˡ ᶜᵒᵐᵉ ᵗʳᵘᵉ ᵈᵉᵃʳ

ʷʰᵉʳᵉᵛᵉʳ ʸᵒᵘ ᵃʳᵉ,”

The soft summer breeze sifted around your bare legs as you sat in your backyard. It was the beginning of April and you could already see the summer pink blossoms on the trees. Thus marking today the perfect day to have a barbecue. You & Will’s friends; Amy and Booker - whom he had met in the war - to spend the day with you.

“Oh, look at those clouds.” Booker exclaimed, hand equipped with a charred spatula flicking up towards those sky.

“Yes, they always look so beautiful this time of year.” Amy calmly noted as she sat in the lawn chair next to yours with a glass of lemonade in hand, handing you one as well.

“You tend to find yourself looking up a lot,” Booker murmured, eyes wandering a bit. A habit you often found your own William doing. A mindless habit, one you probably would never notice if you weren’t aware of what the two young men had been through. Booker never seemed to finish his sentence as Will walked out the house with a case of beers.

You stared at your fiancé’s back as he set the case on the table which also held various buns, condiments and drink for your little get together. It had been your idea at first, enlisting your neighbor and long time friend Amy who then convinced her husband for the barbecue. You had known Amy for years, originally growing up together then being there for each other as you both watched those you loved walk in to battle, some never returning.

But Will did, and you couldn’t wish for anything else. Every day spent waiting in the living room for that knock at the door, every night staying awake with the thought of his face - it eventually turning blurred and scarred behind your eyelids.

Yet even when he had came back, you felt some part you loved of him had been left and not to be returned. Forever lost on that battlefield with the remains of the war and other lost soldiers never to return to their families. And you hated to say it but you missed it. You missed when he would happily kiss your forehead, not grimace at the sight of your eye contact. You missed him yet there he stood.

Which is what he had done often since he had returned. He stood with a odd sense of uncertainty, that of a ex-soldier that was waiting to be ordered to return to the battlefield. His back - that he rarely let you caress anymore - seemed to shake with tension. You lowered your eyes as your heart ached, mind trailing back to the multiple arguments you both had had on the subject of his return. Where you would scream for him to just look at you again, with that look he once held of you. That look that held so much love and not sadness. Where he would just stare at you before leaving the house, not returning for hours. Your heart yearned for a man that had been lost amidst bullet showers and smoky fire.

As the soft jazz continued, suddenly Amy jumped up in excitement. The unexpected noise from the chair snapping shut undoubtedly causing the rigid tremor in Will’s throat. “Oh, I adore this song!” She sang, putting her finished cup on the side table.

“Yes, we know dear.”

“Mm, dance with me, Book.” She muttered as she kicked off her peach heels. You smiled at the image of your friends.

“Darling, I’ve gotta tend to the food.” He sang in the same tune. He seemed he didn’t mean his words though as Amy’s hand would later replace the spatula. They would enter a rehearsed routine to the jazz number. Their bodies seemed to melt into tune with each other as if they were made for one and other. You stood from the chair softly, smile still tight as you silently cheered on your friends.

In an effort to show your admiration to your fiancé, you turned to where he had just stood yet the yard was barren. This instantly took the smile from your face replacing it with worry. Had he gone again? Not to be seen for hours?

Leaving the jazz and laughter behind, you walked into the eerily silent house. It was empty save for your dog which you had gotten to keep you company all those years. You started with the entryway then the kitchen yet no sign of Will. Finally hearing a soft thump from the floor above you, you began your way upstairs to the bedroom where he awaited.

“William?” You whispered, slowly moving the door open with your fingers.

“Y-yes, I’m here.” He responded from within.

Your feet hesitantly trailed inside, eyes uncertain of what it may see. He sat with his back to you, crouched over attending to something on the floor.

“Are you oka-“

“I just needed a moment, is all.” He quickly shut you off.

Silence befell you both as the soft pangs from the vibrations of the music outside sounded throughout the room. Whenever he was like this you had zero idea how to comfort him. It was like he was a rose, beautiful but hurt to touch. Moments would pass before either of you would speak again.

You stood in place in front of the door as Will rose from the bed, car keys in hand. You starred at his clenched fist as he crossed the room to retrieve his jacket.

“Where are you going?” Seemingly not hearing your question, Will continued stopping in front of you, waiting for you to clear his path.

“Will,”

“I need to go.” He refused to make eye contact with you.

“William, please.”

“Move.” He muttered.

You didn’t speak. You had never seen him like this. His hands clenched tight, arms rigid and unmoving. It scared you for he was almost unrecognizable.

The next moments would go by in a flash. Will would slam the keys on the stand next to you, turning his back to you. You jumped backwards at the speed of his movements. His back seemed to rise and fall abnormally like he was out of breath. He moved across from you, resting his hands on the dresser that stood on the opposite wall.

Despite every bone in your body telling you to leave him, you stayed. You slowly began to move his timid breathing. You now stood behind him, hands hesitantly moving up his back but not touching it out of fear. “Will?” You murmured, finally trailing his muscles. “Baby?”

His back jumped at your touch before slowly relaxing. You felt it vibrate under your fingertips as he seemed to speak. “Hmm?”

It was then he would turn around, eyes slowly trailing up your form to meet with yours. They seemed to scream at you yet he stood perfectly still inches in front of you. Both your bodies pulled towards each other in a almost mindless motion.

Your hands carefully rose up to cup his face bringing towards yours. You both would envelope into a small kiss as if you both were slowly testing a invisible waters within each other. Slowly backing up towards the bed, you both helped the other undress.

Your fingers would make a symphony of his scars as you caressed his chest. He touched you as if you had blossomed into something new, marking words into your flesh to be revised later. You knew he’d come back yet he showed you he had never left. He showed you he had never truly left, that his touch had resided on you, his words traced your being.

He may have been through death itself yet you loved the man who walked out of it. And his touch assured you that you’d find him, wherever he was.

[alwayswasagoodthief]

Abigail Marston - Getting down to the RP basics!

The Basics:

Main Blog: Bio:

General Information:

Name: Abigail Roberts Marston

Gender/Pronouns: She/Her/Hers

Age: 22

Date of Birth: (this rp takes place in 1899) May 11,1877 Zodiac: Taurus MBTI: ISFJ Enneagram: 6w1

Language: English, French

Alignment: Neutral Good

Occupation: Former sex worker, outlaw, later rancher

Religion: lightly protestant 

Affiliations: Van der Linde Gang

Physical Appearance

General Appearance: Raven hair often worn up, about mid back length, blue eyes, fair skinned with hints of pink. Face Claim :Lauren Cohan despite her hair color.

Distinguishing features: Freckles and a few sunspots

Height: 5’7 / 1.7 Body Type: Average, on the thin side

Personality

Personality: At her core, Abigail is a compassionate, steadfast woman who is willing to do absolutely anything and everything to protect those she loves. She does not have a formal education, but she is intelligent, cunning, insightful, and a diligent worker.  She used to be something of a romantic and a dreamer. Part of this aspect is still present, but her pessimism and exhaustion have taken precedence.  She is very motherly overall. She doesn’t plan on mothering people, but she finds that the people she meets need that sort of nurturing. However, she is frustrated with her lot in life. She wants nothing more but to settle down, be properly married, work a ranch, and enjoy her family. Abigail can be cold and calculating and ruthless, even to those she loves. She is also very assertive, stubborn, and emotional at times.

Likes: Chili, warm blankets, mystery novels read to her, good wine, playing the piano, chocolate, the color blue, a cozy fire, deer

Dislikes: Snakes, liars, opossums, filth, unabashed cruelty, etc. 

Habits: Bad posture such as leaning over too far, crossing her legs, scrunching her nose, humming, putting her hands on her hips, singing, tends to go into quiet coughing fits, especially in RDR 1.

Family: Mother- Adelle deceased. Father -  Henry - Deceased

Sexuality: Bisexual (Not counting past clients)

Relationship Status: Estranged

Romanceable?: Tentatively, yes.

Miscellaneous Information

Skills: Lying, manipulation, stealing, seducing, killing, gambling, foraging, light tracking, sewing, some hunting skills, infiltration, explosives, acting, decent at reading people

Living situation: Transitory (later Strawberry and Blackwater)

Special belongings: Most of her and Jack’s belongings were left behind in Blackwater. Photographs, baby clothes, Jack’s books and toys, nearly everything. She has a few clothes, but not much else 

Level of education: No formal education, but has street smarts and a sense for business due to her days as a working girl.

Weapons:  Knives, poison, gun proficiency - has  a Schofield revolver gifted to her by Uncle, a knife John made for her as a gift, a carbine repeater - used to borrow John’s - he bought her one so she’d quit taking his, cunning

Horse

Breed: Tennessee Walker

Coat: Dark Bay, nearly Black.

Name:  Arabica

[yourluckyoswald]

This is the self insert/OC fairy. 🌼🧚‍♀️When you get this in your ask box, please tell us 3 facts about your S/I or OC and pass it around. Let's learn about each other's S/Is/OCs! 🌈🌷

OH okay!

(Also sorry if this is late, I haven't been on tumblr due to testing)

Willow "Oswald" Pelekai

• Oz hates bugs with a passion. No matter how big or small. If there's a bug, she'll jump and climb on people by any means necessary to avoid it. Sometimes she forces her squad to kill them for her. If it has more than 4 legs, she'll set the house on fire.

• Oswald has more than one Nickname. Oz was stationed in Schofield for a bit, that's where her more unknown nickname came from. But she scrubbed that nickname clean to where no data exists on it. The only person to know is Lieutenant Smokes and 2-Bit.

• Unlike her name, Oswald doesnt consider herself "lucky." She feels like she loses more than wins. Or that the hard sacrifices she makes isn't worth the reward.

Anyways, yeah...the last ones a bit dark compared to the rest lol

[roamingtigress]

Gee, Dutch, my blorbo, I wonder why your health and stamina stats are so low 🙃 (Took me a bit to get this photoshoot done, a lot of times yesterday he had this really soft expression in his eyes and while adorable, it makes it harder for me to make him look more badass :D) (I had to do those Valentine shots in two takes because someone was firing, shot him unprovoked, he broke pose, jumped into defensive mode, sprung out the Schofields (understandable) and I had to settle him by taking him out for a ride on Judy; funny thing is hitting G can also help; he needs some care to play <3)

[yeehawpurgatory]

Luck and Warmth

❄️🌨Seasons Greetings!🏔🌬This is my RDR secret winter exhange gift for @danger-r-98-5 I hope you enjoy this!

🎄Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays to everyone 🤍💚❤️ 

I took inspiration from prompt #2: aka one kisses the other in the spur of the moment after a job gone bad, and momentarily freaks out until?…;)

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x John Marston

Summary: Arthur and John occupy each other’s spaces in a small cabin while out on a job—a job that doesn’t pan out the way either thought it would. They spend their time together, eating, sleeping, talking, and keeping warm. When their job goes wrong, they deal with it together too. Even when that involves free falling into a river for John, and giving into his feelings for Arthur.

Words: 5k+

@rdrevents

A cold wind comes down from Mount Shann, rustling trees and howling just outside; the two of them are held up in a small cabin just north of Strawberry. The windows are bare and the wood is soft in some places, but it’s finer living than Arthur and John had seen in the past few days.

 Finer, and real intimate. 

John’s standing in the corner closest to the fireplace. Naked as a jaybird, with the pride of a stray dog, he washes his body with a rag and water straight from the boiling pot, poured into a bucket which had surely seen better days. Arthur doesn’t bother teasing him about the predicament; John has a hard enough time bathing when it wasn’t ball shriveling-ly cold outside.

 It’s one of the only noises in the cabin—water ringing out of a rag, dipped into a bucket, squeezed, over and over; that, and the gusts of wind hitting the cabin. Howling outside. Water, wind, the crackling fire, and Marston’s off-tuned humming oh Susanna as he washes. A raspy sound, like a steam whistle through scrap metal pipes. A broken, damaged whistling sound. Arthur chuckles at the comparison he’s drawn.

     “Somethin’ funny?” John barks with no bite.  

     “Not really, no.” Arthur says as he hides his amusement from the younger man.

 Trelawny heard from a friend— who’d heard from their friend no doubt— something about a gaggle of boys down this way, robbing whoever they ran into on these roads. A small gang of about five or so men, mostly cow-milkers and shit-shovellers, all deciding to give the outlaw life a try. They were coming up from Strawberry in a few days supposedly. If the tip was good, then these boys carried with them weeks worth of loot they’d managed to steal.

With the camp well stocked, well prepared, and well fed, Arthur prepared for what was supposed to be a long solo trip; well in his territory. Only, Marston was sent along with him at the last second.

Hosea said it was a well needed trip for the two, that it could be a bonding experience of sorts. Of course he’d only said it whilst feigning ignorance. Arthur was sure Hosea conspired with Dutch to send both of them off to ‘mend their relationship.’ He’d caught them talking to each other as he packed, eyeing him and Marston all the while. This was an easy job, but nonetheless, they’d shoved John at him. Again. Probably in hopes that the two of them would rid themselves of the last bit of animosity they felt towards each other. 

Dutch had all but said it when he’d waved them off, “and don’t come back until you like eachother again!”

 A cold breeze sweeps the cabin. From the corner of his eye, John flinches. “Shit! It’s cold!” 

Arthur makes it a point to stare down at his lap. He’s perched on an old wooden chair cleaning his Schofield in front of the fire. John is awfully close to him, in this tight cabin they share.  

He swallows roughly when Marston cusses and stomps around bare-assed, now in his eyeline; the young man is oblivious to the funny feeling that starts to pool in Arthur’s gut, and travels lower than he’d like. Arthur clears his throat. 

He could make a joke. Or a snide comment. Something to cut the tension which only really exists in his own mind; but Arthur bites his tongue. 

 Thing is, something about their relationship had in fact changed. Though thankfully, no one else had noticed. 

 He can pinpoint the moment something had shifted in his interactions with the younger man. Shoulders heavy from burying two of their flock, eyelids drooping shut and threatening to freeze over; things had changed back in the hellish cold of Colter. There was something…something Arthur can’t explain, which took him over after they’d found John bleeding and starving and damn-near frozen to death.

That ‘something’ ached his chest every time he wound up in that cabin weeks ago, changing Marston’s bandages and spooning him watery broth. While he watched his friend fight off feverish infection, face held together by nothing but thin stitching thread. 

That sight of John is burned into his brain. In front of his eyes. 

Maybe it was seeing John close to his possible end, knowing death could come for any of them on that mountain, and knowing what it felt like to bury his friends in the snow— Arthur desperately wants to forget that feeling. 

Whatever took hold of him right now—for whatever reason, had him feeling some things Arthur used to hope and pray would go away. Feelings which plagued him as a youth, in the back of his mind, that despite the love surrounding him, he tried to bury deep within himself. Feelings which arose for Marston of all folk. It started some odd years ago.

At first he thought he was sick, then he thought he was crazy; unfortunately, he was infatuated.

     “Throw another log in the fire would ya’? I’m freezing my jewels off!” 

Arthur’s lip quirked up. He tossed another splintered log into the old fireplace. 

     “Need anythin’ else, your highness?” Arthur teased and turned to John, who was thankfully fully dressed now. Wearing some old thick trousers that had once belonged to Dutch, with a shirt and black coat over Arthurs own spare union suit. His scarf and gloves were set out to dry on the table by the fire. 

     “Could use some food since ya’ offered.” He hauled the washbucket outside, dumping the dirty water as Arthur stabbed a hunk of meat on a knife and stuck it over the open flames. 

    ________________________________________________________

 A while later they sat on their bedrolls eating their dinner consisting of a chunk of meat straight off the knife, a can of warmed beans they passed back and forth, and a stale bread roll each. 

Arthur had last hunted three days ago. The provisions bag had gone down considerably, they ate more than usual to keep warm, and for something to do to avoid too many moments of silence. Though, to credit them both, there hadn’t been a real tiff, or awkward moment between the two men this whole trip. 

John could even say they’d managed a few good conversations here and there. Arthur bit back his clever comments, and John held back a good amount of stupid questions, and as easy as that they were acting like old— if not distant —friends again. 

     “You want the bourbon or the gin?” Arthur asked after cleaning up and sitting down. The older man was bundled in his blue winter coat, wrapping it around his broad shoulders like it was a blanket. It was too damn cold to forgo boots and gloves in the evening, so he wore those too. 

     “Hand me the gin.” 

Arthur scrunched his face in disgust and passed the half-finished gin bottle John was working his way through. He sipped it while he contemplated.

When they’d left camp Arthur was miles away in his own head like he often seemed to be. At first John thought it was just because of him, his presence alone could piss the older man off. 

Or, it used to. 

Morgan was acting funny these past few weeks. Since the gang had left Colter, John noticed. Not funny bad, just…different. Friendlier . Like he was suddenly fond of John as he once had been; as fond as he were before John decided enough was enough, and ran off on his own. The worst of the animosity had run its course, John reckoned, because Morgan was acting downright soft with him these days. Thank God for this change, for whatever caused it. 

John had long grown tired of being hated by someone like Arthur. Someone he couldn’t deny he felt…strongly for. He ain’t one to label his emotions, preferring instead to let them come and go easy, like an unwanted visitor. What he felt for Arthur though, it couldn’t be ignored if he tried; and tried he had for too damn long.

     “Nasty thing.” The older man sipped on his own bourbon. A few drops slipped down his chin and trailed down his neck. John watched as the liquid disappeared down into Morgan's shirt. His mouth watered. 

     “That’s why you only need a few mouthfuls.” John took a swig and swallowed it with an exaggerated sigh. Hopefully swallowing down any indecent thoughts. 

John has suspicions about Morgan’s newfound fondness. Namely that it had something to do with Blackwater, when John sided with Arthur and Hosea’s judgement over Dutch’s. Or maybe it started when Morgan found him nearly dead in the snow. Maybe that gave Arthur a scare? Maybe it shocked him enough to make the older man forget his anger? To let it fizzle out, even? 

Lord knows it shocked him in its own way. John was sure Arthur hated him; the last thing he thought he’d see on the brink of death was Morgan showing up out of thin air and saving his ass. It weren’t even the first time, neither. 

     “Few more days.” John broke the easy silence and took another swig. 

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t sort of sad for the end of this job. This was the most time they spent together since before John left. It was oddly domestic, their little routine. Taking turns cooking and hauling fresh water from nearby, tending to the fire, drinking, talking, just shooting the shit like the old days. He’s going to miss this when they get back to camp, the quiet domesticity of sharing a space with Arthur alone. 

     “Few more days indeed.” Arthur answered him. John swore he sounded somber; he blamed the drink. “I’m goin’ hunting tomorrow. Might see if I can catch something nice for us.” He takes a big mouthful of bourbon. 

Despite the cold Arthur’s got the top few buttons of his shirt undone. It’s hard not to stare at the swirl of chest hair peeking though. It’s downright impossible for John not to notice the way fabric stretches and moves over Morgan’s muscled arms too. If he stared any longer he’d start drooling. Wouldn’t that be something?

     “Bout’ damn time. I’m awful sick of rabbit.” They’ve been eating rabbit at least twice a day for a few days now. John chuckled and took another swig. A pleasant heaviness had set into his limbs, he blinked slower. 

     “You got a special request for me then? Seeing as it’s my job to find em’, hunt em’ and cook em, there oughta be somethin’ for you to do then?”

Arthur’s ribbing was playful, gentle. John was still technically on the mend. His face was still raw in the worst parts, his arm and leg ache in the cold the way old wounds do. He sat around just as much here as he did in Horseshoe.

     “There is. Listenin’ to your big mouth and eating your shit cookin’.”

 Slow in his movement thanks to the drink, John couldn’t dodge the damp balled up sock thrown right at his head. Instead, he threw his damp drawers in retaliation.  

     “Mars—ah! You son of a bitch!” Arthur squaked. John outright laughed at the sound. 

He threw a spoon next; John dodged and threw the sock back. 

 Arthur swerved and tossed an empty can; John chucked a horsebrush. 

 Arthur picked up a tin cup; there wasn’t anything close enough for John to grab. 

           “Okay, okay!” John holds up his waving arms in surrender. Arthur eyes him considerably. Then slowly places the tin cup down as John lowers his arms. 

Nobody moves, and John lets loose the breath he’d been holding. “Thank you…” he sighs. 

Arthur’s still got his blue eyes watching John’s every move. 

The second he drops his guard John lunges forward—he tackles Morgan. 

     “That ain’t fair!” Arthur’s coat slips off. He fights against John’s arms wrapped around his middle, vying for leverage of sorts.

     “Ain’t nothin’ fair in life Morgan!” 

The two of them fall to the ground. They wrestle like boys for a moment. All messy limbs and wriggling, in seconds they’re cussing up a storm and huffing between their fit of growing laughter. Arthur gets the upper-hand and throws his weight around, pinning a wriggling John under him. They haven't done this in forever—scraping and wrestling just for the fun of it. John had missed this more than he thought; though eventually enough was enough. If Arthur didn’t stop moving and get off, John would have a big, stiff, problem.

Legs tired from kicking and arms pinned above his head, with a heaving chest and a toothy grin, John barks out, “YIELD!”

Arthur eases off him with a heavy groan, rolling onto his back just beside John. They’re both breathing heavily, chests rising up and down, the sound of their panting fills the cabin. John turns his head to look at Arthur. The older man was already looking at him, his lips pulled into a lazy smile. John hadn’t seen Morgan so content in a while. 

He looked damn-good too, with his hair dishevelled and shirt bunched up in odd places, a hazy relaxed look on his face. 

“Shit…” Morgan breathed out, still smiling. He pulled himself upright with a groan, arm feeling the ground around him for the bourbon. He took a long, slow sip, swallowing with a sigh. “Y’fight dirty,” he slurs. Taking another sip. 

John scoffs. “Damn right. Never stopped fightin’ dirty…” he trailed off. John reaches around for his own bottle and gulps down a shot when he’s sat upright.

 They drink some more together. When the world around John starts to spin he closes his eyes and lays back. 

 When he opens them next he’s carefully laid out onto his bedroll closest to the fire, his coat laid over him like a blanket. There’s a weight against his back, light snoring in his ears, and the familiar warmth only another person could give.

They’ve taken to sleeping like this for warmth in the chilly nights in the cabin, settling beside each other, that is. At first it scared him, the idea of being so physically close to the other man again, but all that went away when John had woken up in the morning; refreshed like he couldn’t believe, and happier than he’d felt in a long while.

 It’s the closest they’ve been in years, and John relished in every second of it.

______________________________________________________ 

A few more good days passed and it was finally time. 

 Arthur spotted a group of misfits matching Trelawny’s description of the gang they were after. Young looking, green looking. These kids wouldn’t be much of a fight. With John and him shooting, they’d be up and outta there in minutes. It’s that easy. 

They were still too close to Strawberry. It’s one thing outriding a bunch of kids, but the law was another issue entirely. Arthur shook his head and pocketed his binoculars. It wasn’t worth it to shoot too soon and risk drawing lawmen or armed townsfolk their way. 

They’ll have to trail them then. Be patient, that is.

Arthur led the way, the two men following a good distance from the small gang as they rode off path.

They just had to bide their time. It was going just fine.

Until it wasn’t. 

 “Arthur.”

John’s tone was urgent as he whispered. “Arthur, behind us, careful.” 

Between scouting for the gang between the trees and keeping a good distance away, Arthur paid no mind to the clopping of horses behind them. He took one glance over the shoulder and cussed. Why now?

 Bounty Hunters.

 He glances at John. The younger man held the reign with just one hand, the other hovered over his holstered Cattleman.

“Just keep yer’ head down, they might be here for them boys,” he tells John. Wouldn’t that be lucky? Even if they weren’t here for him or Marston, Arthur is certain they’ll be recognized. Him at least. He has Micah’s little shootout to thank for that; dammit—Arthur thought he’d been careful not to be seen around. 

If luck is in fact on their side, then these men would ride onward, past the pair and keep going. 

Unfortunately for them, the riders don’t pass by. One of the Bounty Hunters rode up close to them. 

      “Afternoon sirs,” the Bounty Hunter tips his hat. Another one rides up beside John. “You boys seen or heard anything strange about?” His tone is even and his expression is nearly friendly. His farce is betrayed by the pistol in his hand and the men who start to surround them.

 He looks at John. His jaw is clenched shut and his hand hovers. 

     “Can’t say we have, sorry.” Arthur tries to keep his voice low, his demeanour normal, but his fingers twitch of their own accord. 

The man nearest to Marston shifted in his saddle, trying and failing to discreetly look at John’s face. Something like urgency flashes in the man’s eyes. 

Arthur’s hand inches slowly to his own holstered weapon. 

     “Jesus, what happened to you?” 

 John stares angrily at the Bounty Hunter before spitting out his response, “wolves.” 

     “Speaking of, this area’s full of those bastards. And we ain’t seen nothing strange ‘round these parts.” Arthur spoke slowly, leisurely. Or attempted to. “So why don’t you boys check the main road might be that—”

A split second later—a pistol aimed right at Arthur’s face. He had no time to move, to think and—

  BANG!!!

 Blood spattered all over Arthur. His ears rang, and for a horrible moment, he thought he’d been hit. 

Another shot rang out. By now Arthur’s head caught up with what was happening. 

John had drawn and shot both men dead just then—and now they were running for their lives. 

 Goddamn gang of hoodlums couldn’t know just how lucky they were right now. 

 _________________________________________________

     “Leave em’ here, we’ll run up this way!” 

 John listened to him, he smacked his horse on the ass and watched it ride off. He followed Arthur up a steep pathway. The two braced on one another as they climbed uneven terrain and slippery rocks. It was Arthur who’d been out and about, he knew this area better and so he led. 

     “Should we split up?” John asked between breaths. His lungs were burning. After a few days of sitting pretty and smoking until his chest hurt, this was the last thing he needed.  

     “No—keep runnin’!” 

Arthur grabbed his arm and yanked him forward—forcing John to keep up even as his vision began to blur and spots danced in front of his eyes. His bad leg buckled. 

     “Shit!”  

John blinked heavily, trying to see clearly. When he did, his eyes widened. 

Arthur had led them to the edge of a hill overlooking a rapid river. The sight of the water made John dizzy instantly. He looked at Arthur, who looked at him, still clasping the fabric of his coat. 

     “John we—I think we gotta jump.”

 He stares at Arthur in pure bewilderment.

NO! He can’t! Arthur knows he can’t—John would take his chances running off on foot, or one on one with all those Bounty Hunters. Or lawmen. Or wolves. Or the noose—again. Just not this. 

     “John.” Arthur urges, voice stern, serious. Absolute. “We ain’t that high up.” 

     “I—I can’t. You know a—”

 The shouting of men is too close for comfort. 

      “Can’t we just shoot em?” John grimaces at the helplessness in his voice. At the shaking—the raw fear in his tone. 

Suddenly the rapids from below echo in his ears, making his head hurt. They weren’t that high up, but it’s not the height alone that scares him. Cold air be damned, John was sweating. 

     “Marston…” Arthur isn’t angry, but oddly sympathetic. “You know how big a group these bastards travel in. We can’t risk drawing more out, if we haven't already.” 

John’s mouth opens to protest, but once again, he can’t find the words. “Fuck.” His knees feel weak, he feels shaky, stiff, how’s he supposed to do this? How was he supposed to jump? 

     “Arthur, I…I can’t do it.” 

 The voices were so close, John was expecting them to show up any second. Fuck! What else could he do? Surrender?

           “John.” Arthur’s mouth is set rigid in a tense line. 

     “A-Arthur.” John can feel his lip curl down and begin to tremble, his eyes are already filled to the brim. Damn his weakness, damn his stupid fear. Fuck. 

Arthur’s hand trails lower, and lower, until he’s clasping John’s hand in an iron grip. John chokes at the resolve in the older man’s eyes. The protectiveness. 

 This is the man he trusts the most. 

      “If you won’t do it, then I won’t.” Arthur sounds completely sure of it. “They’ll shoot on sight Johnny, I ain’t leaving you here to face that alone.” 

The words take John’s breath away. If anyone would follow John to an untimely demise, despite there being a way out just a few feet away, it would be Arthur; It’s only right that John do the same. Nevermind he’s so scared he might puke or pass out.

He shakes his head, the silence is enough of an answer. He squeezes back, keeping Arthur’s hand in a vice grip. He hopes his shaking isn’t that bad. 

 “Here!” A man’s voice rang out, then Bounty Hunters were swarming around them. “Stop—!”

 The two men break into a run.

 They gain momentum. John is still holding Arthur’s hand when they jump off the ledge. There’s shots flying around them—but all John can hear is the sound of his own screaming and the wind whipping past his ears as he falls. 

 Still, Arthur hasn’t let him go. 

 ______________________________________________________

One two three…one two three…one two three…

      “C’mon, please, please…” He couldn’t pretend the wetness in his eyes was anything else but tears. John was limp, too damn pale, and Arthur couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.

Arthur held John’s hand for as long as he could. He still held it tight when they hit the water in a breath stealing impact. Immediately, the cold water had shocked him; all it did for John was make him panic and flail. He tried. Lord. He did. Arthur tried to pull himself and John toward solid ground, but he couldn’t keep them both up, and also fight the rapids threatening to pull them in. 

 It was a Goddamn rock in the end. John had hit a rock, hard. Then he went slack. His hand slipped from Arthur’s and he was gone. Disappearing under water and making Arthur’s blood run cold. 

  …two three…One two three…One two three…one two—

      “Not like this, Marston, come on!...” He will wake up. He will. He had too. 

 One more round of pushing on John’s chest—and his eyes finally fly open. Thank the Lord. 

John gagged and coughed, violent spasms wracked his body. Arthur turned him on his side. Bouts of water came up, spilling out his cracked-slashed lips. He wretched, ugly vomiting, and gasping for breath. It was the loveliest sound Arthur had ever heard. Thank. God. 

Arthur tugged John upright, gathered him into his arms, trying to hide just how much he was shaking. He held a breathless John close, running his hands up and down the younger man’s arms and muttering soothing words as soft as he could manage. “It’s okay John. Breathe boy, you got it, easy, easy, yer’ okay John.”

He shushed John when he whimpered. Shushed him and held his hand again and squeezed. John squeezed back. 

“M’right here, I gotcha.” 

John clenches a fistful of Arthur’s soaking coat, pulling himself up with a cracked groan. The younger man leans on him, and for a moment they just breathe together. Then, John’s shoulders begin to tremble, and Arthur stills. 

“Marston?” John shakes his head. He hiccups, a breathy, wheezy, gasping noise. Was he crying? Was he hurt anywhere? 

“God.. damn!”

The fool was laughing.

“I can’t believe we just did that!” His laugh is one of disbelief. “Can’t believe I just…” he gasps. “And you—God!...” 

His heart pounded hard within his chest. Now that John was conscious, safe, in his arms, Arthur’s fear subsided. Absurd excitement took over. 

He was crazy…—

—he really jumped. 

John was crazy too, he jumped alongside Arthur. The two of them were crazy, lucky fools together. 

Oh but he survived, they both did. Oh Thank God. He pulls away just enough to cup John’s face and take a good look at him. His eyes were droopy, body tired from more than just heaving water. That, and he had a nasty looking bruise on his forehead.   

He trusts him. John trusted him enough to do this—to face his biggest fear. Arthur’s heart swells. Before he knows it, he’s peppering kisses all over John’s face. 

 One on his nose, one atop his slashed cheek, one pressed softly on his bruised forehead, on his chin, the other cheek… 

 Good God. He felt…he felt alive. Giddy in a way he’s only ever felt when he’s narrowly avoided death or capture. They did it!...

 He kisses John right on his lips. 

 Then, Arthur freezes. Ice cold dread fills his gut. Oh Lord…did he just? His stomach flipped...Oh no…

     “Uh-Arthur?” The younger man’s lips are parted slightly, eyes wide in surprise. John doesn’t sound horrified—or disgusted; but the utter confusion in his voice makes Arthur want to tuck tail and bolt. He can’t, he’s still the only thing keeping Marston upright, but the urge to run is there. It’s there and it’s strong. He closes his eyes to avoid staring at John. Oh you moron Morgan…

 …Arthur jumps when a gentle, calloused, wet hand trails up his throat, and around the back of his neck. Fingers tangled in his dripping hair, and John pulls himself, tilts his head up, and kisses Arthur right back. 

When they part, Arthur doesn’t speak. He can’t. His throat is too tight, constricted; but John sounds just fine now.

     “C’mere…” John kisses him again—and this time Arthur dips his head down, leaning into the kiss. He’s waited so long for this, to want and be wanted back—it was heavenly. A soft groan escapes his mouth. It’s embarrassing, his eagerness that is, but John smiles against his lips. 

When they pull apart next it’s with a gasp from both. He stares at John’s face, at his lopsided grin and his cloudy grey eyes. This time Arthur has some words.   

     “Yer’ bleedin’.” 

John must’ve hit his arm, there’s a small patch of blood near his shoulder. 

     “And yer’ freezin’.” John says with a goofy smile. 

    ______________________________________________________

It’s too big a risk getting a room in town. 

 Their horses beat them to the cabin. 

 The second they’re inside Arthur eases John in front of the fireplace. John’s hands stay clenched in Arthur’s soaking blue coat as he tugs at it. Morgan gets the idea and loses it, untucking his shirt and shucking his suspenders. By the time he’s naked the fire’s good and going. John is so fucking cold he can’t rightly appreciate the scene unfolding before his very eyes.  

Arthur’s hands are shaking just as much as his own as the two work on getting John out of his soaking clothes. When it’s done and he’s just as bare as Arthur, he grabs a blanket. John throws it over the other man’s shoulders, and rubs his arms up and down. 

      “What’re you doin’?”

      “Warmin’ you. Trying too, I mean.” 

 Arthur smiled at him. He grabbed an old dry shirt and used it to dry John’s hair in return. His fingers felt so good on John’s scalp, even with the barrier of fabric it was like a massage. John’s rhythm faltered as Arthur worked away the knots from his scalp to his neck. He dried him, and draped him in a blanket next to the fire. 

John sighs at the heat coming off in waves, he sticks his hands and feet as close as they could get to the fire. Warming fingers and toes through in seconds. 

      “Let me take a look at you.” Arthur’s drawl matched the fire somehow, red and hot. Warmth grew in his gut and spread through his body, making him feel good and heavy. Though, it could also be the tiredness setting into his bones. 

John freed his arm from beneath the blanket. Arthur surveyed the cut. With tender hands he cleaned and wrapped it, gentle assurances slipping past his lips. Not that it was needed, the cut was a shallow thing; but John wouldn’t trade Arthur taking his time with him, being soft with him for anything. Absolutely nothing.  

     “C’mere.” He says when Arthur finally stops fussing about. John lifts the large blanket up. It’s big enough for two men as big as themselves to sit side by side, both wrapped up; so long as they sit real close. 

 The last of the coldness dissipates. They leaned on each other. Warm and tight-knit. Arthur’s got his face hidden in his hair; John’s got his face hidden in the crook of Morgan’s neck. John might call this cozy, if the wind would just ease up a bit. 

He can’t possibly know what the other man is thinking, but John knows one thing. He’s never been happier a job fell through. 

     “I thought.” He pays attention when Arthur lifts his head and clears his throat to speak. “I thought you was gonna hit me or start cryin’.”

     “Almost did.” John chuckles. Arthur loosened the arm he had wrapped around his waist, making John bristle. 

     “Sorry. I didn’t mean to-uh…I shoulda’ asked if you were fine with…” 

     “Fine with…jumping off a God-damn cliff into running water?” 

     “No.” Arthur shook his head. It takes John a few seconds to catch up. 

     “Oh!...Oh Arthur you—you ain’t gotta ask me.” John swallowed thickly, hoping he weren’t about to humiliate himself or say something strange. “You can…M’telling you now, for future, you can kiss me anytime you want. I…I want you to.” 

John had never been good with words, but he hoped he was getting through to Arthur right now. 

The older man was shy in a way John had never experienced being. Too quick to get back into his shell, and retreat into himself and never speak his mind. So John would take the lead then.

     “Arthur. I want you, you want me back?” Quick and to the point. 

Under the glow of the fire and a spare oil lamp, John watched as the older man began to blush. It was a glorious sight. 

Arthur wrapped his arms around him and tugged. They changed positions, John straddled in his lap, Arthur holding his narrow waist, running large warm hands up and down his torso. Just taking his time looking and feeling; John did the same. His own hands traced over Arthur’s big arms, his shoulder, up his neck and to his handsome face. He’s still in disbelief that this is actually happening. How did he get so lucky?

He had an inch over Arthur, held up on his lap like this. John gazed at him; blue eyes clouded over with something fonder. Nearly loving, and all for him. It was his turn to show some love back. He kisses Arthur softly. 

One right on his crown and in his hair. One on his scarred nose, his chin. On one cheek, on the other; then John paused. His hands cupped Arthur’s face on either side. Just to be a little shit, John asks again; 

     “You want me?” 

Arthur groaned. His hands ran up John’s arms, one large palm cradled the back of John’s damp hair. 

     “God yes…” he breathes. A small smile tugs at John’s lips. Arthur’s baby blues are aimed at his mouth, breath shaking as he inches forward. They’re so close they breathe the same air; their lips hovering over each other. 

     “...Good. I’ve wanted you longer than I can remember.” 

     “Fuck-Johnny !...” It’s that declaration from John which has Arthur picking him up and laying him flat on top of a bedroll. 

Arthur looks at him with something so soft and sweet in his eyes, John’s heart swells. He’s never been happier than he is now, laying flat, trying to keep still while Arthur presses slow, gentle kisses on every part of his body. His arms, his stomach, his chest…The older man is on top of him now, looking down at John with utter adoration. His gaze is so intense it’s near unbearable. For the second time that day, John is wordless.

He’s not cold anymore, not in the slightest. Nothing could ruin this moment for him. For them. 

 A loud rumbling catches them both off guard. The sound fills the cabin, but they both know where it came from. They look each other straight in the eyes before they burst out laughing. Arthur falls on the ground beside him, shaking in a fit of giggles. 

     “Jesus Marston! You act like I’m starvin’ you!” 

     “You did! I ain’t eaten today!” John’s only half embarrassed that his stomach ruined the moment. “Wait, where you goin’?” 

Arthur shakes his head and chuckles a few more times. He grabs a bag and rummages through it, pulling out one soft looking apple. 

     “You want this?” When John scoffs Arthur smirks. “If not, I got some rabbit meat.” 

     “Oh fuck off.” 

 They eat a less than delectable meal of rabbit, cold canned corn and the last of their bread. The wind still enters the cabin from the bare windows, but the two of them manage to stay warm all the same. Their bedrolls are pushed together close to the fire, and they share the large blanket still warm with their body heat alone. 

When both men doze off, they’re wrapped in each other's arms, both holding the other tight as they can in their sleep. 

This trip wasn’t what it was supposed to be, but they're both grateful as shit it went the way it had. Though it went unvoiced and unacknowledged, the last of any hard feelings had long fizzled out; in its place was something funny, or rather, strangely good. 

 Something soft and fond, and oh so very warm. 

[schofieldshelmet]

Long after the war is over, Blake’s ghost follows Schofield.

That doesn’t surprise him much. Blake was always following him in life; of course death wouldn’t be any different.

His neighbor down the road in Cookham has a cherry tree, standing just next to the street like a sentry. Its branches stretch over the cobbles and shed thousands of snowy pink petals that are swiftly trampled underfoot by passerby. Schofield makes a point to stop and stand beneath it whenever he walks past. He sticks his hands in his pockets and upturns his face and feels the petals brush against his cheeks like rain.

Blake usually appears as Schofield stands under the tree, perching high in the branches, blossoms tangled in his hair. He looks at Schofield with a smile that drips blood. Crimson stains his jacket like a gory condemnation. His eyes are blank and cold.

“You killed me,” he states, each time, voice soft and scared. “It was all you.”

Schofield stands quietly and takes it, because it’s true. It’s his fault. He’s to blame. His guilt reminds him of it hourly. He doesn’t need spirits to tell him of the fact.

He hasn’t had the courage to walk across the bridge that spans the Thames just yet. The water rushes below, swift and glassy, and sweat beads on his skin. He thinks of bodies. He thinks of struggling to stay afloat, his tunic weighing him down with its heavy spun wool. He thinks of choking on bitter cold water, trying to breathe but drowning instead.

Blake’s ghost finds him there, too, as he stands near the bridge and tries to will himself to walk across. “You’re a coward,” Blake says simply, and Schofield stands and listens, and nods, until Blake tires of scorning him and melts into nothingness.

Forests terrify him. They make him tremble. Whenever he steps into the trees, all he can hear is a soft, mournful melody staining the air like a dirge. All he can remember is standing frozen in a clearing, unsure as to whether he was alive or dead. Unsure whether or not he had drowned in icy waters and become a ghost, trapped eternally in wartime. Unable to rest.

Sometimes, in the darkness of the night, when he has awoken from fire and smoke and blood, when he is gasping for air in the suffocating stillness of his room, Blake comes to him then and stands, and his eyes have a little more life. His jacket is clean, unstained. His smile is normal.

“I’m sorry,” he says then, quietly.

Schofield looks at him, wavering in the blackness, translucent like a cloud, and he nods.

And when he settles back against his pillow, and listens to the soft breathing of his wife beside him, and traces the floral patterns of the wallpaper with tired eyes that have forgotten what it is to have rest, he feels a little bit better. Not much, but a little.

Blake stays with him till morning, seated on the floor, until sunlight bursts through the curtains and dissolves him like ash.

Then, and only then, does Schofield fall asleep.