#anyway that's enough introspection for tonight

[mizuno-marmalade]

sigh. ethel cain brainrot lately.. cainrot ig.. listened to two children in a motel for the first time last night and. hu o e g h. stop making me think about my childhood challenge !!!!1 im gonna stpo talking before i say something stupid bcus i am extra prone to doing that once my meds wear off lmao.

[mochatune]

I really love your characterization, I feel like you're really true to the source material whenever possible ❤ you're good at making cute moments without sugarcoating the unpleasant parts of characters!

I'm curious.. how would Peter/YB react to the reader confronting him about not actually loving them? Reader having been very accepting of him and having a sort of revelation when his Perfect Boyfriend facade slips. (I mean he'd absolutely just cut his losses and go full murder mode but I think it'd be interesting if he actually had any level of introspection.)

If the goal was to flatter me then it worked, like shit, what a beautiful compliment 😂❤️ I got you rn. There is a lot of ways to interpret this hc so I’m hoping what is written is what you were asking for.

——

- Peter had a lot of red flags you’d had looked past. He was perfect and went above the bar when it came to past men who had entered your life. He remembered your birthday, the anniversaries, even those cheesy days like national hug day and he spared no expense into making it special for you even when there was nothing to celebrate.

- this was honestly a big part in why you were so accommodating when he was less than savory to be around, you yourself are surprised with how much of a pushover you were in the past. Guess it shows just how low the bar is for you.

- things eventually just started connecting as you got to know him. The possessiveness being a big part, it felt like ever since getting to know him your social life sort of…. changed. It suddenly felt like there was less time for the other people you cared about, even your family wasn’t spared when it came to him. Everyone was a challenge for him.

- neither of you really ever really established a relationship, you always thought you two were just really close friends I mean … sure there were some moments where it felt like something more but it wasn’t something you were barely even beginning to consider after past relationships left you feeling drained. You were okay with this sort of situationship for the the time being you just hadn’t noticed how much he had really wanted.

- He was always the guy there for you to talk shit with when you were frustrated or the shoulder to cry on, he was practically your best friend ever since Lucy had passed. You still blamed yourself for everything despite no consecutive reports on the case for months now but hey atleast you had someone to help you grieve and move past the tragedy that had happened at that diner. He was always there for you, he said it himself and had done more then enough to prove it through his actions towards you.

- one day he just changed. It’s like the guy you’ve been building trust with for almost half a year now just turned around and showed you a side he’d been forcing himself to hide from you.

- suddenly seeing those eyes that made you feel like prey, it was weird and quite frankly you didn’t like it. You didn’t like how he was treating you like a piece of meat, like any other guy would. It felt like you were beginning to see him for who he was.

- all a guy had done was catcall you, it wasn’t anything. You ignored it and kept it pushing like you always do but he just couldn’t let it go.

- he didn’t do anything, not while you were watching anyways but you saw that change in demeanor. He’s done it before though it was always a flash of an emotion you could not name, it always intimidated you but never for long as he was back to his same old lovable self.

- he sort of just dumps everything on you, everything he’d been keeping in all those nights working up the nerve at the mere thought of embracing you as more than just a friend. All those times you had cried to him but not because of him, it infuriated him that the relationship he’d been making up in his head since practically forever with you was nothing more than a mere delusion he’d created to cope with never actually being with you. That was going to change. Tonight.

- he knew, he just knew you wanted to be with him as much as he did with you so when you told him you were put off by his behavior and that you did not feel for him even a fraction of what he felt for you, hearing that “you wanted some time away from him” threw him through a loop. Not a pretty one either.

- those eyes again, the ones he has flashed at the man earlier. The ones that had you feeling helpless. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

- it was like a gust of wind when he grabbed you with all his might, a meaty vein pulsing trough his forearm and the eyes of a killer gaping into your soul. A screaming fit paired with it, words along the lines of “why can’t you just accept that you love me” the words of a delusional freak that you know in your bones you should have never even given a single benefit of the doubt. That all this time that gut feeling in back of your mind was true all along.

- you’re in so much distress that it’s all a blur. The over-exertion of your muscles trying to fight back against the agonizing grip of a grown man paired with the ringing in your head from the screams, the wet on your face from the spittle of the man screaming intensely in your face. There’s a thud and suddenly everything is just black.

- you find yourself with a pounding headache and foggy vision bound against a soft surface, most likely a mattress. You try to move but you find your wrist cold from a handcuff keeping you fastened against the bed post. Everything from last night comes back and you’re reliving everything, a panic attack hits you before you calm down again having hope that there may be a way out of this.

- your captor, the person you thought you’d see comes walking in with a slight hop in his step. Almost as if last night never even happened, he has a tray of food. You aren’t sure what it is but you know you want no part in it immediately readying your voice to try and talk your way out of this predicament.

- there’s a stool by the bed your bound to, he sits on it and puts the tray on the bedside table right by your head.

- he tells you good morning in a sickly sweet voice you wish you’d never hear, almost as sickening as the deep purple bruise left on your arm after the mere grip put on you last night.

- you don’t offer a kind response back (who would let’s be honest) but it doesn’t seem like he minds. That flips a switch when the next words fly out of your mouth, almost as if you didn’t even think about who you were talking to before you spoke.

- nasty words continuously come out of your mouth begging him to let you go all the while barking like a chihuahua as if you were trying to hit a nerve. Who could take anyone seriously while they were tied down though?

- he laughs it off, this is why he loves you so much. You have a quality that can’t be copied, your spirit is so pure to him. He can’t help but communicate how much he loves you with a breathy voice and an ethereal stare.

- you’re next words were your biggest mistake, the ones that sealed your fate. You just couldn’t say you loved him back.

- his reaction, it’s not as bad as last night but still terrifying nevertheless. He understands it’s a process in a relationship but to spout such nonsense is enough to rile him up all over again.

- he’s more than offended at being told that he doesn’t really love you and only like the idea of you, you’re more than that to him. You’re essence, the mere presence of you is enough to blow him away. He huffs it away with a smirk, you don’t mean that.

- you’re too weak to fight the cloth clogging your airways, the all to familiar blackness coming back into the corner of your eyes slowly drowning your vision in it as your brain goes numb.

- begging to leave it just won’t work, he knows you really love him and that you want to stay here. You just need time and he’s more than willing to take care of anyone else who seems to think they knows what’s best for you and him.

- just like he did with Lucy.

- overall the guy is fucking delusional, say goodbye to the possibility of him having even a single moment of clarity when it comes to you.

[snarkythewoecrow]

It's technically Wednesday and I started a new WIP tonight!

Definitely been tagged for WIP Wednesday in recent weeks, but haven't had anything, so here you go, and tagging @buckybeardreams, @underwaterninja13, @theotherbuckley

Been struggling to write but got some words down tonight, so here you go. This is BuckTommy, only the first scene (which is sorta a ficlet by itself I guess) Some angst and introspection, and then some soft hurt/comfort will come later in the fic (please forgive typos it's super late and this is a draft)

“Oh, Evan.” His mother never seemed to say his name without a slathering of curdled disappointment, withering came to mind, thinking back now as an adult when he pictured her saying it, the sagging lines where there should have been creases from her smile. 

Neither of his parents had ever been able to say his name without some soured pinch to their lips.

Sometimes even Maddie seemed tired when she’d say it, no matter how much she loved him, not to the degree his parents did, with that trademark exhaustion, but enough to leave him feeling like a wraith for it, as if speaking his name sapped the life from her veins like it did his parents.

And love him or not, Maddie couldn’t fix him—not in the way he needed.

No matter how many band-aids she placed over his broken, bleeding skin, it wasn’t her love that had left his chest an echo chamber. That hollow place had been created for a parents’ love that had never taken root. 

So, he'd left—looking to fill that ache with something—finding a new family with the one-eighteen and starting over with a better name. Because where Evan had been said with a sigh, a grimace, annoyance—Buck could be said with a teasing and playfulness that his old name never could. 

Yet, beneath his skin, Evan had never felt more alone, scared of losing everyone and being forgotten, and so Buck sought comfort in the heat of others, in their skin, changing his shape to be what was wanted, trying to fill the void.

He drank from that well until he nearly drowned in it.

Except that a person, like a house, can’t stand divided—or more directly, ignoring a part of yourself didn’t erase it, nor any of the wounds that made you want to hide it away.

Especially when lightning stops your heart, and you dream of another life—one just a shy step to the left—close but just wrong enough to leave you rattled when you choose life, only to wake to your parents' faces as they say your name. 

That same cadence and tone—the whined note of pity as his mother says for the thousandth time in his life, “Oh, Evan,” somehow still almost sounding disappointed.

Perhaps she always would be—probably internally screaming at the unfairness that Buck had returned from the edge yet again and Daniel never could.  If that weren’t enough for another few years of therapy alone, he didn’t know what would. 

Their near-awkward attempts at caring in the After, how his mother’s voice still thinned across the bridge of his given name, nearly snapping and falling off the other side, reminded him of its wrongness of just how lonely that part of him would always be—a reality where Evan may never be said without pity or contempt.

A house divided—and it might have stayed that way, if one Tommy Kinard hadn’t arrived, looking like a brick shithouse with a sexy cleft, short-circuiting his brain and making him stumble over his own name.

“Buck—Buckley,” Buck had to clear his throat, scrubbing his palm over the pocket of his jeans before shaking Tommy’s hand.

“Your name’s Buck Buckley?” Tommy raised his brows, nose scrunching a bit. “Did your parents really hate you that much?”

Buck hadn’t missed Eddie, hiding his snort of laughter behind a fist, as he pretended to be working on the tailgate. Asshole.

He’d sent a glaring squint in Eddie’s direction, subtly flipping him the bird, then turning back to Tommy. “Uh, actually, somehow I have no doubt they did—or still do—but, um, yeah, anyway.” He rubbed the back of his neck before dropping his hand. “Hi, I’m Evan—um, Evan Buckley—though most people like Buck better.”

And then, Tommy had done something unexpected—his eyes tightened, the soft blue made brighter by the afternoon sun, seeming to search Buck’s own before suddenly turning softer, then crinkling at the corners. “Well, if it’s okay with you,” Tommy said. “I think I’ll stick with Evan—I got a feeling he’s a pretty interesting guy, too.”

[kushielsmercy]

Happy Thursday folks, we've almost made it. Have a small stand-alone snippit from a fic I started this summer and finally admitted I'm never coming back to. Sorry Joe, you're staying kidnapped.

***

“Enough, enough!” Nile laughingly pounds on Nicky’s back, dizzy. “Put me down!” 

Nicky tightens his grip and spins them around twice more, faster, before giving in to her pleas and depositing her back onto the ground. Nile groans and falls onto her back, the Oregon sky spinning above her. 

“Gotta work on your sea legs, kid,” Andy calls from across the fire, cackling. 

Nicky turns on her, eyes twinkling. “Bella.’ 

“Don’t you dare,” Andy warns, holding her bottle of whiskey up in defense. She’s too late. Nicky swoops in, stooping to grab her thighs and lift her straight up, twirling in a circle. Andy does her best to look dignified, resting the whiskey on top of Nicky's head, waiting him out. He tilts his head back and she breaks, laughing as she pours liquor into his open mouth. 

Joe appears above Nile, blocking out the night’s sky. He grins down at her, glitter raining down from his hair. “You can’t be done already, this is your holiday.” She refuses to sit up just yet, but makes a grabby motion upwards to appease him. He obligingly passes a half-burnt sparkler over and then taps his against hers in a mock toast. 

“I still feel kind of weird celebrating,” she admits as Joe sits down beside her, watching Andy try to kick Nicky’s feet out from under him to steal back her cigarette. 

He hums, tilting his head in acknowledgement. “You’ll have many years to contemplate. But who knows when you’ll see that again,” he nods to where Nicky and Andy have come to a compromise, Andy riding piggyback while she holds the cigarette to his lips.

Nile snorts, sitting up and motioning for the last sparkler. Nicky had shot off the last real firework hours earlier with childlike glee.

“I guess it is July 16th anyway,” she says, “we could be celebrating anything. Fuck it. I’m celebrating electricity.” 

They’ve spent the last three months infiltrating a cult with known ties to a particularly nasty trafficking ring. Nicky and Andy were on the inside, trying to figure out where the money was coming from, while Joe and Nile had camped out in a shack a few miles away, listening to the others spit some particularly inventive slurs over the comms while they worked out the supply lines. 

Point being, Nile’s not feeling real patriotic. But they passed a run-down stand a few miles back advertising 75% O f all Fire orks!, the f and w lost to time, and Nicky had insisted they stop - the man’s never met an explosive he didn’t like. It’s close enough to the solstice that Andy had her annual itch to get blacked out next to a dangerously high fire, so, here they are. Celebrating something that isn’t quite the Fourth of July, but isn’t exactly not the Fourth of July either, existing in a liminal space between Nile’s waning national allegiances and a desperate homesickness ten years hasn’t been enough to shake. 

Joe, ever good at reading a room, lets the moment pass unremarked. He’s the best at that. Nicky gets caught off-guard by his own introspection, going suddenly quiet for days at a time. Andy doesn’t have much patience for the whole thing, she figures if she doesn’t know herself at this point then it’s all a lost cause anyway. Joe, on the other hand, thinks clearly, deeply, and at his own pace. Meaning he’ll probably have a lot to say on the complexities of celebrating problematic holidays a month from now, but that’s not going to stop him from making heart eyes at Nicky tonight. 

Nicky makes a grab for the last of the whiskey and Andy dodges, yanking all of her weight to the left so that they collapse to the ground together, rolling out of the fall. She springs up and gets a foot on Nicky’s chest, hamming it up as she downs the last of the bottle in victory. 

“My love, avenge me!” Nicky mimes dying, doing an appallingly poor job despite all his experience.

“Ah, but then who would carry on your memory?” Joe laments. 

Nile knocks her shoulder against his. “Looks like we’ve found the limits of your love at last,” she tells Nicky. “It was that gas station coffee.” 

Joe nods solemnly. “I can still feel its poison in my veins.” He lifts a hand shakily. “Even now, I’m too frail to walk.” 

Nicky bats Andy’s leg away, moving to stand up with the single-minded focus of the very drunk. “Good. Then it will be less work for me to get you on your back.” He struggles to get himself upright, which doesn’t bode well for his luck standing up anything else. 

Nile gags out of principle. By this point she’s all but immune to finding the two of them on any surface, at any time of the day, but she tries to remember she’s supposed to be offended at least once a week. 

Nicky collapses onto the ground beside them, rolling over to put his head on Joe’s lap. “I’ve missed you,” he says. 

Joe runs his fingers through Nicky’s hair. “And I, you.” 

These days, Nile knows that if she wakes first up and tastes rain, she should make sure Nicky has lemongrass tea. She knows Joe has never kept a pair of matching socks for more than a week but hates when one gets a hole in its heel, and that Andy loves cosmopolitans more than she will ever admit. She knows these people inside and out, but then occasionally they’ll do the most mundane shit and it’ll sneak up and hit her all again how long nine-hundred years really is. 

“Don’t you ever worry you’ll get tired of each other?” Nile asks absently, mostly joking. 

Nicky squints up at her, blinking through the alcohol. He pokes Joe in the chest. “She’s not making any sense.” 

Joe flicks his ear in admonishment. “Stop teasing her.” 

“No no, I’m serious,” Nile says, realizing as she says it that she is. Also possibly more drunk than she thought. “Like, what happens if you break up one day. How would that even work? I know you guys have the most epic romance in all of history, or whatever, but what happens if that ends? Am I going to have to swap weekends?”

“What’s romance have to do with it?” Nicky asks, propping himself up onto one elbow. 

Joe groans. “See what you’ve done?” 

Nicky hushes him. “I do not - choose - Joe. Choice is irrelevant.” 

Nile looks to Joe, who shrugs. “The last time I tried to remember my wife, some years ago, she ended up having Nicky eyes, his face,” he reaches down playfully, “his cock.” 

Nicky grinds up into his touch, relaxed and unashamed. 

“I am right here.” Nile pretends to shield her eyes.

Nicky makes a dismissive noise. “I would burn the world to the ground for Joe, and it would be an act of self-defense.” 

Joe makes a wounded noise then ducks down, pulling Nicky’s up to meet him halfway. Nile’s seen this show before, too much of this show before, and knows that’s her cue to leave. Or, in this case, wander the twenty feet away to where Andy’s set herself up with ‘smores. 

“They’ll fall asleep soon.” Andy passes her a sharpened stick with a marshmallow already speared. 

Nile shrugs. “It’s sweet, in a very X-rated kind of way.” She watches the marshmallow slowly brown, keeping her eyes carefully on the fire. “I just, I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever get something like that, you know?” 

“I don’t have a damn clue,” Andy says, reassuring as always. “But the world’s probably safer if you don’t.” 

[pinkpeccary]

SO they only reposted a couple but after rereading the main one i liked i left a long comment about what specifically i liked about it and how glad i was they reposted

and today they replied to the comment and an hour later reposted the other big fic of theirs i missed- idk if this is directly connected but it might be and regardless i'm so excited again love wins part 2

anyways tell authors when you like things!

back in january the author of a few fics i liked deleted all their works so i subscribed to them in the hopes they'd one day repost and today was that day LOVE WINS

[iguessitsjustme]

Love Sea Ep 4 & 5 Thoughts

Okay. As I’m writing this, I know I’ve been gone from tumblr for at least a week (I was back(ish) a day earlier than expected. Weeeeee) Possibly more. So it’s been a minute since at least episode 4 aired. So I’m lumping it in with my episode 5 watch next week. And if y’all think just because I’m not on tumblr, I’m not liveblogging…well of course I am. My wrist does hurt though so I’m not sure how talkative I’ll be. I am also having a bad brain day and I have had a whole weekend full of absolute shit. And my week is going to be…tiring. I’ll be on a plane, a road trip in a car, and then a train. All in the span of like…4-5 days. Don’t ask. Anyway that will be in the past by the time I post this. Time to watch. As always, liveblog under the cut and will likely have criticism. You’ve been warned before you click:

“Every meeting ends with a farewell” please tell me they aren’t going to try to be deep right now. They have not done nearly enough to build up Rak’s side of feelings for me to believe he’s feeling introspective at leaving this place. He pretty much hated it here for the most part. I could maybe understand if it was Mut since he just apparently immediately fell in love because he believes in love. And believing in love means automatically falling in love with the standoffish guest that you’ve been fucking.

Okay the heart of my issue with Rak and Mut can be perfectly encapsulated in this scene where Rak learns that Mut has a pickup truck. “And did I ever tell you I didn’t have a pickup?” Sir, what you feel for Rak is not love. Because if you actually loved him and cared for him, you would have heard his complaints about the motorcycle and the cargo tricycle and used the pickup truck for him instead. He literally told you the motorcycle hurt him to ride and still you did nothing. Because it means more for you to have this weird sense of superiority over Rak than it does to make sure he’s comfortable and not in literal pain. I had a more caring relationship with my former coworker than this. Because I did something where I thought I was in the right but it was a petty argument and honestly, I could see how much she was hurting from it. So I apologized and I let her know that she was more important to me than being right. And that was for a COWORKER (now friend yay). Mut can’t even manage to do that with someone he supposedly likes romantically.

Why does Rak not get to be upset about this? Mut just immediately shuts it down by saying “let’s not end on a bad note.” Sir, you caused the bad note and made no apologies. Instead you laughed at Rak for daring to want some comfort while having no control over his own life while there. Like seriously. If you caused the pain, you don’t get to dictate when the hurt is done.

And the flashbacks again. Will we get some every damn episode? We’re 4 for 4 now.

Rak baby boy this doesn’t make any sense. Does Mut have a magic dick? I do not understand.

What.

Noisy sidewalk people go AWAY

So Mook is paranoid for her valid concerns about STDs? He should get tested. So should Rak. If memory serves, both sleep around. Mut with guests and Rak when he needs to write smut. And Rak has slept with Mut already. I know they used a condom each time, but he should still get tested too. Seriously. Rak’s wealth and fame won’t protect him from STDs.

Noisy neighbor go AWAY

Man I wish this show would just let Rak be aro without making it about trauma and him just being scared to love.

Am I supposed to care about this random woman at the end? Cause I don’t.

And I feel meh about this episode as well. See you in literally the bullet below for episode 5 but it will be a week for me. Time is weird man. Time is weird.

Time IS weird past Rae. And you were right, it was a tiring week. I’m finally caught up on shows though..sort of. I still might start another show tonight. Or maybe listen to an audiobook. I think I’m gonna return my library book and see if they have it on audiobook. If I thought my wrist hurt last week, that’s nothing compared to today. Mistakes were made on my trip. One was unavoidable and the other was…well I did an exercise and that was a mistake.

Anyway now for episode 5.

Rak should wear his glasses all the time. That is all (speaking of glasses…where did I put mine…)

I had issues with that whole scene but honestly I’m too tired to type them all out. Mut is not as smart as he thinks he is and that’s all I have to say.

Rak, sweetie, the waiter just stood there. You know that. You were there.

I’ve had guys say this to me after I told them I don’t like them. You will never guess the outcome of that.

Absolutely the fuck not. There is no way that any person with a uterus wrote this line. Because what the fuck. Why is it that Mook isn’t allowed to be upset with being sent all over yonder on an errand for someone who is NOT her employer and this is the response to her being upset? Believe it or not, people that have periods can be angry because of the actions of other people and not just because of their period. Yes, PMS is a thing, but it is not the only reason for anger. Who wrote this line? I just want to talk.

Save Mook. Save her.

I hate how Vie perpetuates the horrible stereotypes of women in order to manipulate Mook. It’s awful.

So let me get this straight. Mut…forced Rak to go out to eat with him (even though they could have gotten delivery) and then when they’re shopping and Rak has explicitly stated that he wants to leave, it is a “date” because Mut is interested in Rak and he says so. But Rak has stated he does not like Mut. So the whole thing doesn’t work because Rak DOESN’T WANT TO BE THERE. It’s not a date if they both don’t agree it’s a date. And to Mut, you can’t use Rak’s novels against him. Those are characters in fiction. They don’t represent Rak’s real feelings. I hate Mut. Have I mentioned that? I mean I’m not Rak’s biggest fan either but Mut is just…dumb. Rak should be able to argue against this it’s so dumb.

Most novels don’t have sound?? I mean there are audiobooks but the sound in those is typically just words. Unless it’s different in Thailand? I don’t know. Also maybe this is a translation thing? (This is me after the end of the episode and I get it. He was talking about what the author says the sound effect would be. I admit it, I was dumb here. I don't think it came across quite right in the translation but this is fully on me for being dumb. But also the sound mixing at the end? Do NOT get me started. It was bad and I wanted to die.)

If someone put all of my alcohol and snacks back while I was shopping AND paying for it…I would murder them on the spot. I beg your finest pardon Mut, but let Rak have snacks? The alcohol I’m less pressed about because he does have alcohol at home but the snacks? THE SNACKS? I hope Mut rots in hell. This is The Ultimate Sin to me. *guards my snacks with my life*

If Rak’s skin still looks that good on a diet of alcohol and snacks, then I will eat my hat. Also Mut mind yo business. You ain’t his doctor. C’mere Rak. I’ll give you some snacks.

Save Mook. Save her.

This family drama is so poorly written. I feel bad for the actors who are killing it in this scene. They deserve a better script.

I did not hate the end of that episode. Or the scene in the dressing room. Mut's response to the drama was...he still has some work to do on boundaries but it wasn't bad. He did eventually respect the boundaries and they had some good communication in that dressing room. I don’t like that he had to be screamed at before he left Rak alone, but he didn’t walk to Rak which I was so scared he was gonna do and the show was gonna paint it as romantic.

The preview for next week has me concerned though. I probably won’t like episode 6. But that’s all for this week…and last. My wrist hurts and I need a nap.

[beabnormal24]

Hi, hello, it’s me again here.

So, of course my competitive butt had to take my own comment about Yuki/Alex as a challenge and now I have 12k or more of a draft.

But I don’t know if I’m doing it correctly, I NEED HELP (also mental help, possibly). I was mostly inspired by AJR’s song ‘Turning out’, which I highly recommend because it’s A MASTERPIECE.

The general idea is: Yuki finds a stray puppy during a storm and he brings it to the prt clinic at the ground floor of his apartment complex where Alex has just started working.

They start to get to know each other but Yuki is still nit sure if he actually likes Alex or if he sees him as a best friend, since he’s never cared about actually getting into a relationship so he had never actually looked at the difference between love and in love.

But it’s also a big period of his life because both Charles and Pierre have moved out of the apartment that they used to all (as in Yuki, Pierre and Charles) live in during university because they have started working and have decided to move in either their respective partners.

Charles is already engaged with Carlos (of course there’s Charlos, it’s my fic) and Pierre hints at proposing to George (I don’t know where this ship came from in my mind but I wanted it, so I wrote about it), and Yuki is starting to feel lonely. [also, other side-couples are Sewis and Landoscar]

He has the company of a puppy called Kuri (because it’s Japanese for chestnut, and I imagine Yuki with a poodle with chestnut fur) and Alexander Albon, funny and tall and easygoing but he doesn’t know what it means to him.

So, lots of introspection as it’s common in my fics and fluff because Yalex has to be a comfort ship, sorry. (And I’m also planning on smut, hehe)

Anyway, here is a little snippet, let me know what you think about it (keep in mind that I am NOT British and I do NOT have a beta reader):

—

Karma may be a little fickle tonight, but it certainly pulls him to its side when the heavy rain turns into a light drizzle halfway through his way back to his apartment complex – which isn’t a long journey, per se, but Yuki surely isn’t one to look into a gifted horse’s mouth.

So, by the time he has reached the closed doors of the vet clinic, he is shivering much less than before and the biting cold in his bones has turned into an uncomfortable chill shiver running down his spine from time to time.

What is annoying is the hair plastered down to his eyes dripping wet and the fact that he can’t even try and move a few strands out because his arms are already stuffed full of the sleeping body of a tiny, harmed puppy.

Good God.

The doors stay closed when he finds a sheltered place under the brick's roof of the entrance, but Yuki knows for a fact that Sebastian is never able to leave this place until it’s ten in the evening, because there’s always some animal staying the night after an operation, and he would probably rather close the clinic for good instead of leaving them alone for more than eight hours.

Yuki had never got it, honestly, the sleep and the warm comfort of his bed seems like a much better prospect than staying around sleeping animals in pain, but now that he’s looking at the limp tiny thing in his arms, he may start to understand.

“Sebastian!” he calls out, reaching with his pinky finger to the doorbell. He cries his name a bunch of times, because the rain is starting to fall again and his voice might get covered soon enough, and there’s no way that Yuki is going to wait for him to close everything up – that might take hours, the puppy may be hurting too much by then. “Sebastian, please, it’s an emergency” he must sound like a possessed man, and the lady on the first floor will probably have something to complain about in their next condominium meeting. But she always talks too loudly on her phone on Sunday mornings when Yuki is trying to sleep away a tremendous hangover, so she can honestly go fuck herself – respectfully.

It still takes a few more minutes and a few more desperate calls for the door to open and the dim yellow light of the waiting room to seep on the steps. Yuki slips inside without even waiting for it to open completely, clutching the jacket close to his chest and exhaling deeply through his nose when the warmth of the air-conditioned room finally engulfs him. The puppy sighs against his chest, so it must appreciate the change in temperature, too.

“See, I told you buddy I would get you safe. Yuki always keeps his promises” he says softly, shuffling the bundle of leather closer to his face. The puppy smells pretty bad, a mix of blood and dumpsters rubbish from London neighborhoods, but its tiny eyes are staring back at him all lucid and wide and full of fondness, like it can actually feel love for him, and Yuki can’t even consider the possibility of getting it too far away from his nose.

Yuki may have just fallen in love, too. But it also might be the adrenaline of acting like a freaking hero in a rainstorm when he can barely reach the top cupboard of his kitchen with the help of a stepladder.

But Disney never made a movie about short heroes; he never had a figure to look up to during his childhood.

“Now Sebastian here will take really good care of you, yes? He won’t ever hurt you. Right Seb-” Yuki stops in his tracks when his gaze meets a pair of brown eyes that definitely do not belong to Sebastian, especially with the way he almost has to bend his neck in half to actually look at the face in front of him and not at the expanse of a broad chest hugged by a plain blue polo.

This is not Sebastian’s chest and not Sebastian’s hair and definitely not Sebastian’s lips and definitely definitely not Sebastian’s white coat. Oh.

“You’re not Sebastian” Yuki says dumbly.

Surely enough, there’s a tall lanky guy standing in front of the now closed door, looking only slightly stunned at Yuki’s sudden outburst, like it’s normal to have someone barging inside a vet clinic at half past nine on a Thursday night in the middle of yet another London’s rainy day.

Oh god, but what if this guy is the one who actually barged in? What if Yuki has just uncovered a burglar? But would a burglar open the door for him?

The guy stares at Yuki in silence for two long seconds before he starts patting his abdomen, pretending to check his whole appearance. “Oh, fuck I’m not Sebastian!” the guy exclaims, looking frantically at his fingers, clenching and unclenching his fists like he’s trying to make out the shape of them.

Yuki snorts, shaking his head. This guy could never be a burglar even if his life depended on it, it seems. Besides, he might be slim enough to pass through anything, but he’s still too tall to go unnoticed.

“No, I’m not Sebastian” tall guy says, chuckling to himself. “I’m Alex. You almost made me have an existential crisis right then and there.”

“Identity theft is not a joke”

Alex raises an amused eyebrow at him, like he’s trying to make out the space where Yuki fits in his vision, and he smiles, wide and bright with big teeth and all. “You’re a cultured man, Yuki.”

Yuki furrows his eyebrows in confusion, “How do you know my name?” He asks, looking at the puppy in his arms to make sure- oh, right. “Oh”

Alex laughs again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He must have a tendency for it or maybe it’s just Yuki who looks funny in general. A lot of people have told him that in the past and he still doesn’t know if it’s a good or bad thing.

“You’re funny” Alex states, like it’s some kind of irrefutable axiom. He clasps his hands, taking a few steps forward to start inspecting the bundle between Yuki’s arms. “I heard there was an emergency.”

Instinctively, Yuki clutches the jacket closer, one finger gently caressing the single dot of white in the middle of the beige fur of his head. The puppy yelps softly, snuggling its little nose towards Yuki’s chest, and his heart swells like a balloon.

“Yeah, I really need Sebastian” Yuki says, “I mean, this little thing is hurt, and it really needs a vet.”

“Well, then, it’s a good coincidence I work here, no?” Alex smiles wide, teeth showing between his lips.

Yuki blinks at him. “Uh, no you don’t?” He says but it sounds more like a question than a statement. But, to be fair, he lives above the place, and he has known everyone around here for ages, he would’ve surely remembered someone as tall as this Alex, with such bright dyed hair and this adorable smile-

“Uh, yes I do?” Alex says back, grinning. “I mean, just since this morning. But officially I work here.”

“I’ve never seen you around. And I live here” Yuki says defensively, trying his very best to show at least a smidge of self-consciousness even though he will probably give up pretty easily if Alex keeps staring at him like this – big eyes, big smile, hair that look incredibly morbid.

He hasn’t seen a new face in a while, more so belonging to a cute guy, and there’s still a beer slowly swimming in his stomach, so he should be justified.

“I moved recently” Alex explains, not giving much information away to satiate Yuki’s curiosity. He arches an eyebrow, finally touching the sides of the jacket hanging from Yuki’s arms. Yuki lets him just because he doesn’t really know what to do anymore, and if the guy is really a vet as he’s claiming to be, then he should trust him more than himself.

It definitely is not because his brain is slowly turning to mush at their proximity.

“Now, let’s see what we have here” Alex says, carefully taking the jacket from his arms.

The puppy goes willingly without even whimpering once, instead snuggling happily as it’s deposited against the chest of a new stranger. Traitor, Yuki thinks, though he would probably react the same in its place.

“Hi little baby. How cute are we? So much” Alex coos gently, caressing with his index finger the same spot Yuki had been gently scraping earlier. The puppy gives another satisfied yelp. “Oh, are we hurt? Poor little thing. But now Alex will take good care of you, alright?”

Yuki just stands there looking at the interaction with his hands to the sides, suddenly feeling too empty after so long of hanging desperately on to the tiny animal. But it’s incredibly adorable and endearing the way Alex keeps comforting it, as if it can actually understand what he’s saying, its tiny tail wiggling against the jacket when he manages to scratch a good spot behind his ears.

The puppy must sense that Alex is a good person, and Yuki may be a little dramatic most of the time, but he probably trusts the puppy more than himself. Especially if it’s about a cute guy talking with a high-pitched voice to an adorable animal in pain.

“Now Alex will take you to the other room and we’ll check everything, yeah?” He looks at Yuki then, eyeing him up and down, probably taking in his conditions.

Only then Yuki realizes what he must look like, with his hair flat over his head, raindrops still sliding down his nose, the simple white T-shirt he had been wearing under the jacket now completely soaked, tight against his chest. His shoes make a weird squelching sound when he takes a step forward, his socks clinging uncomfortably to his toes and his pants scratching against his probably already bruised knees.

Fuck, he wanted to wear them for work, there’s no way he’ll wash them in time.

“Uh, sorry?” He mumbles, painfully aware of the puddle he has formed under his feet. He grips at the hem of his T-shirt, uselessly trying to straighten it out and immediately regretting it when his palms leave sticky red handprints in their wakes. Yeah, no, there’s no way this is recoverable.

Alex doesn’t seem angry about it, and as his gaze falls to the stained fabric, he frowns, concerned.

“It’s the puppy’s” Yuki says, cringing at the feeling of blood against his skin.

Oh God, it’s the puppy’s blood. A puppy’s blood is staining his clothes and his hands and he’s going to puke, isn’t he? Or worse, what if this cute guy thinks he hurt it? What if this cute guy thinks he is an attempted murderer? A murderer of puppies?

Yuki is honestly afraid of his own shadow most of the time, and he still sleeps with his night light on when there’s too many thunders outside, but how can he convince Alex of that without embarrassing himself even further?

To his delight, Alex smiles at him, shaking his head with a twinge of fondness that makes Yuki’s cheeks feel incredibly warm for the way he’s still shivering from the cold. “Come on, then” Alex says, turning around “You can clean up and dry off in front of the radiator.”

Yuki doesn’t have to be told twice.

[indistinct-echo]

2022 Fic Masterlist

Diamond Fire (G / 138 / Oneshot) [Weddings, Ficlet]

They put a ring on it.

A very tiny ficlet.

Villaintine's Day (G / 870 / Oneshot) [Street Artists, Emenies to ?]

“What the fuck are these?” Dan stares down at his hands. He knows what he’s holding, technically, but he can’t seem to make it make sense. Flowers. Who the hell would give him flowers?

A fic about nemeses and being seen.

push and pull (T / 1k / Oneshot) [Angst, Trichotillomania, Unresolved Argument]

“I know, I know. I’m supposed to stop assuming people are mind readers,” Dan says as he reaches up to tug at his hair. It’s not quite a nervous habit, but it is something that settles his nervous system.

A fic about managing expectations and unmet needs.

the rust that grew between telephones (G / 1k / Oneshot) [Chat fic, Mild angst]

"I feel like you’re very far away" "Our flat isn’t big enough for anywhere to be considered very far" "Can I come work in your room anyways?"

A fic about overworking and the limits of sms-based communication

Nothing New (G / 1.2k / Oneshot / Vault Tracks Series) [Chat fic, Phil identity angst, Early days (Manchester)]

“I've had too much to drink tonight How did I go from growing up to breaking down? And I wake up in the middle of the night It's like I can feel time moving

How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22? Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?”

- Taylor Swift, Nothing New

mum (G / 1.4k / Oneshot) [Mental health, Mild Angst]

mum [ (mʌm) ] 1. noun - mainly British, an informal word for mother 2. adjective - keeping information to oneself; silent

A fic about that which we do and don’t discuss with our parents.

Spaceship Earth (G / 1.6k / Oneshot) [Disney World 2014, Established Relationship]

Dan can't understand why Phil insists on repeating the most boring ride on the planet, but that doesn't mean he won't go along with it.

A fic about creating private spaces in public places.

Must Come Down (G / 1.6k / Oneshot / Gravity Series (2)) [Introspection, Established Relationship, Massage, Hypomanic Crash]

Dan is in the middle of his third round of recap to Phil, talking a thousand miles a minute with an ear-to-ear grin, when suddenly it all stops. His mouth fills with cotton, his smile begins to ache, and the train of thought he’d been clinging to completely loses its tracks.

A fic about falling and catching yourself on the way down.

pancakes + syrup (G / 1.9k / Oneshot) [Domestic, Slice of Life, post-WAD reunion fic]

“Are my nostrils deceiving me?” Phil asks, still out of Dan’s line of sight.

Dan blinks, looks down at the pancakes, now almost ready to be flipped, and then back at the Phil-less space. “No?”

meander through the garden of your mind (we can take our time) (G / 1.9k / Oneshot) [Exploration of sexual orientation, Mental health, Early days (Manchester)]

“I don’t—,” Dan starts but then cuts himself off. He takes a deep breath. “It’s not PJ’s reaction that I’m worried about. It’s the saying of words bit.”

A fic about identity and the ways we can create and explore it

Betta Late Than Never (T / 3.8k / Oneshot) [FishWhisperer!Phil, Strangers to ?]

Dan hires Phil to therapize his betta. They get along swimmingly.

[wesper-ao3feed]

Fashionably Late

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/JvYPKhE by Jazzythursday He chooses everyday to be himself anyway, even if sometimes he isn’t quite sure yet what that means. Tonight it means letting Jesper spirit him away for a date, the location of which is a mystery that Wylan is nowhere near as put out by having to wait to find out as he pretends to be. It means his hair is long enough to curl like his mother’s and his suit is at least three shades too close to blue to be considered appropriately mercher black. It means he’s wearing pearl earrings one of Jesper's rings and maybe a little bit of makeup. His father would hate all of that, and Wylan chooses to believe that it doesn't matter, that he doesn’t give a single one of Kerch’s three flying fish what his father thinks and never will again.   Date night, or the precursor to it. Jesper has certain thoughts about punctuality and surprises, and Wylan has thoughts about Jesper. Words: 1270, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 2 of Long May The Night Fandoms: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo, Shadow and Bone (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Wylan Van Eck, Jesper Fahey Relationships: Jesper Fahey/Wylan Van Eck Additional Tags: Post-Book 2: Crooked Kingdom, Jesper Fahey Loves Wylan Van Eck, Wylan Van Eck Loves Jesper Fahey, Domestic Jesper Fahey/Wylan Van Eck, Date Night, Fluff, identity and introspection, Established Relationship read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/JvYPKhE

[reqording]

12/17/23 1:22 am

it's been a long time since I've written. I'm 21 now, and tipsy at a salsa gala. You can definitely find videos if you try, but nothing of me dancing because I've kinda been way too scared to dance.

things have been okay. I passed most of my classes with A's, and if I put proper effort in, I could've passed them all with A's, which is enough for me, honestly.

I keep having romantic feelings on a whim, despite knowing that I'd rather wait to find the thing that is right for me. Sadly, logic doesn't always overwhelm infatuation. Luckily, having no rizz renders it meaningless anyway.

I paid money to be at this gala tonight, and I'm definitely glad I came, even if I am not dancing much. Someone approached me and asked me to help her friend learn to dance, and she said I was amazing. Easy dopamine baby. I'm still a little bit too shy to ask strangers, though.

Just talked to a friend, and he gave me some tips on confidence when dancing, but I'm not sure how much it can do to overwhelm the rustiness I feel when it comes to salsa. Regardless, it was nice to talk to him.

I keep seeing so many beautiful people here, and yet still can't understand the men who spend their time simply looking at women.

maybe when I read this again I'll be in love. Maybe, as a lofty dream, I'll be married to someone that I treasure, and have no need to contemplate these thoughts. And yet, I can't help but think that I will be alone. if between now and that loneliness, someone special does end up reading these words? I guess this is my time to talk to you. Not as the person desperately in love with you, but as the coldly rational person who will inevitably (apparently) fall for you.

please don't break my heart. there's only so much more I can take. That doesn't mean don't tell me if feelings fade or blah blah, just be honest with me and try to be there for me afterward, and I'll be okay.

I guess it probably tells something about me that I'm giving future people tips on how to break up with me gently, but I suppose I'm just a bit of a cynical fellow.

anyway. I've got a night of salsa dancing left before me, assuming I decide to harness it. However, I am having quite a time just pouting and contemplating, so who knows.

I wish I could stop spoiling my days by thinking of love.

I wish I could forget the faith I have in the fact that I will find someone someday, who will warm my arms, my neck, my heart.

I wish I could simply live like there's no tomorrow.

but one day, I hope, someone will read these words. They will be the person I love unequivocally. The person I want to give my whole heart and mind to. And maybe the first person who I show the fullness of myself can't handle it. Maybe you are the second, maybe the third, and yet all I need is for you to hold a genuine love for me, for the things I love and the words I share, and you will be the first in my eyes, the only thing that I can see, the one that I thank endlessly for blinding me, because to have you as my final sight would be an honor above any other.

how pathetic, honestly.

to sit here, pining, as I could be doing something about it. What if the perfect person is here tonight? Lonely and introspecting all the same?

alas, I am pathetic, so I suppose I will never know.

[aquarianlights]

Wow, hugs. I didn't mean to make you go that introspective, but I hope it helped you! I want you to know that I'm proud of who you are and the person you've become. Your posts bring a smile to my face like nothing else. I'm damn happy that you exist! Maybe you the person you are today needs to forgive the person you used to be. Not excuse it, but at the same time, not feel the guilt that you have for so long.

Oh. No worries! I am almost always that introspective. Haha. That's just me 24/7. A lot of people find me too serious tbh. 😅

You're so sweet and so kind. But, no. I absolutely deserve to feel the guilt for what I did. Frankly, I deserve to be punished, but I got away without anyone realizing I did the thing. And I couldn't speak up coz I wasn't in my right mind until months upon months later when I was finally out of there and away from that place and a person there. And I just sort of... never did. We weren't on talking terms anymore and I haven't spoken to them since. It is the only relationship in my life that has ever ended disastrously. Friends, family, romantic, etc. First and so far the last. So we respected each others wishes and didn't speak. I wouldn't know how to tell them anyways coz it wouldn't be just one person I'd be telling... and it would bring up so much grief and anger. And possibly put me in jail, but I'm honestly not sure about that one, whether there's actual laws surrounding what I did or not. I *think* there are but I haven't seen them enacted on anyone before so idk. But I'm sure they would come after me and they would have every right to. I deserve to feel guilty and awful for what I did and I won't ever forgive myself and that's how it should be. That's what is morally and ethically right. I need to think of it every day, at least once, until I die in order to respect the one involved that didn't deserve to be involved. The one that was innocent and got caught between a really complicated situation that I didn't know was happening to me at the time. I need it to repent, too. Not in a religious way coz fuck religion and all those cults. But repent as in absorb the pain I caused an individual for something that wasn't their fault and didn't even have anything to do with them.

There's so much more, but you get the gist. It's just what is right when you do something so terrible that you can't even say it aloud to anyone.

But your words mean so much to me. They really do. And I appreciate you so much. Thank you. Your words are like a warm hug right now and it is srsly much needed tonight. It's 1am where I am right now and I can't thank you enough for this. I hope you're having a wonferful day/night. And a wonderful life. I'm thankful you're alive and here, too. 💙

[mateoangelortegarivera]

Mateo had been informed that tonight would be, to quote a friend, 'hell,' but he still didn't really know what that meant exactly. He'd had his wisdom teeth removed and his appendix, so maybe it would be something like that. What he knew for sure was that he was supposed to turn into a wolf, and he knew he was coming to meet the Head Wolf before it all went down that night. Jogging down the path, he greeted the alpha with a high-five and an immediate hug. "You must be the alpha man! Very cool. You're like my boss now, right?" Mateo nodded, grinning, and held up his camera in one hand, the tripod tucked under his arm. "No, no, it's okay. I won't need hands." He set down the tripod and as he set it up, explained, "This baby's been with me from the beginning, since I was recording in my closet, you know? She's seen it all." The camera was dented and didn't always work the best, and he certainly had enough money these days to get a new one. Truth be told, he did have a new, had a whole camera man, sometimes camera crew depending on the project, but coming to Lunar Cove to visit his friend before all this crazy wolf stuff happened had been a personal project. "Left Diego back in LA. Homey is the best cameraman out there, crazy skilled, but this was a solo trip, you know? A man and his camera. Real introspective like. Anyway--" he stood up straight, the camera set up now on its stand and put both his hands in the air like he was being arrested. "Hands free." He clapped his hands together. "I bought rip-away pants, and I brought bug spray in case there's fleas. And I've been thinking about my wolf name. What do you think of Mat-Wolf-eo?"

closed starter for @mateoangelortegarivera​ where: not far from the Den when: night of the full moon

To say Nico had been alarmed to hear about a newly bitten wolf was an understatement. Of course, he knew statistically, it was bound to happen sometime under his watch, accidents happened—but the timing really couldn’t have been worse. Add to that, the flurry of gossip about the new wolf in question. Hearing terms like "liability," "youtuber," and "bro" (with emphasis that implied a special intensity), Nico wasn't exactly sure how he was supposed to deal with this. Comforting someone who was entering a world they knew nothing about was at least familiar, but usually that person didn't have the potential to then impart worldview-shattering knowledge on millions of strangers on the internet. He was still mulling over how he might gently deal with that, when he heard his name called by one of the wolves coming back from patrol. Nico abandoned the food on his plate to head down the path and meet their new arrival. He was cheerful as he rounded the bend and spotted him at the trail head, raising a hand in greeting. "Hey! You must be Mateo—" Nico slowed, and took in the equipment and tripod, before looking to the man carrying them. "Oh. You really... You brought a camera..." After a brief pause, he added softly, almost apologetically, "You know you're not going to have hands soon, right? Someone should've explained that..."

[recreatedxmemories]

[babiesafezone]

putting this here bc too many ppl I know irl follow my main but like. it’s such a strange feeling to realize that the way you approach relationships has changed. Like I have no idea when my fantasizing went from “I want to be cute and innocent and good for them” to “I want to hold them and protect them and make them blush” but apparently that happened at some point

[khorazir]

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Bit of an unusual request from you. Unusual colour, too. Aren’t you worried about how people are going to react?”

“Nope. Want to know why I want to do this? There was this teenage boy at the surgery last week. He wore nail polish – all kinds of colours, too. He had been in a fight after school because of it. He wasn’t badly injured, thankfully, but enough to need some stitches. After I’d treated him, he burst into tears, saying he wanted to get rid of the colours because the other boys at his school were teasing him and saying it wasn’t cool. I told him that men could wear this stuff if they wanted to and still be cool, same way as it’s cool for women to not wear it, or make-up and stuff, and that generally, gender wasn’t that clear-cut anyway, and coolness not always desirable. So, anyway … uhm … Sherlock? You okay? You looked … oddly vacant for a moment.”

“I was thinking. I’m surprised by you, John Watson. For a man who not long ago firmly insisted on being not gay – without mentioning that you were, if fact, not entirely straight, either –, this is very introspective and forward-thinking. But why do you wanted me to paint your nails?”

“Because the boy is coming back today to have his stitches removed. He knows that I’ve been an army doctor, that I’ve seen active combat, and that now, I’m helping you solve crimes, all of which I think makes me somewhat cool in his eyes.”

“You want to impress him?”

“No, I want him to feel more comfortable in his own skin. Sherlock? You’re doing the staring thing again …”

“I’m … touched, John. You never cease to amaze me. And you know, you can do my nails, too. Later, when you’re back from work.”

“I’d love to. This colour as well, then? It’s almost the same as that one shirt of yours.”

“The one that makes your eyes dilate and speeds up your heartrate whenever I wear it?”

“Yeah, that one. But just for the record, it’s not the shirt that does this, but its contents – and the fact that it’s so damn tight.”

“I’ll make sure to wear it tonight, then.”

“Please.”

For this month’s @sherlockchallenge : Nail

[reaveries]

▬  an admiration for perennials

summary: arthur meets a woman with an affinity for cliff maids

pairings: high honor!arthur morgan pov x female!reader

warnings: sad introspective arthur, sh*t word (:o), mention of mary, dying from flu, pollen (?? this thing is so fluffy, i'm grasping for straws here)

word count: 6.2k (estimated 26-minute reading time)

a/n: i have proofread this piece so.. many.... times... i'm so ready to finally publish it and get it the eff away from me. i hope y'all like it, i'm really happy with how it turned out! (i think, i can't tell anymore). i have a part two outline in the works so if you'd like to see that, please let me know by interacting w/ the post! also, this is categorized as a reader/self-insert but at one point there is very brief character description. i try to keep that to an absolute minimum and leave it generally gray enough to remain a self-insert fic. if that bothers you, i'm sorry, just overlook it! anyways, njoy, pardners <3

masterlist archive of our own

Revised for clarity 1/5/2024.

He takes a long drag from the cigarette between his lips, letting the harshness of the warm smoke enter his chest with ease. The cigarette had nearly met its end, so he knew it was getting to be that time. He jabs it into the ashtray along with the ashes from all the other bargoers and bids the barkeep a good night, leaving some change for his good company.

Unfortunately, Arthur hadn't found the solace he was searching for in the homely saloon. He’d filled himself to the brim with watered-down beer and a few shots of whiskey when he felt especially plagued by his thoughts. But as he pushes open the swinging doors and steps into the cool night air, his head still swarms with a myriad of upsetting things. 

His life is a complicated mess, though part of him knew it always had been. It just wasn’t until recently that he realized how unnecessary it was for it to be such. On the same street where he currently stands, he’d been responsible for putting lead in the heads of countless men a few weeks prior. He didn't even know their names, and he surely doesn't remember their faces. It was a wholly avoidable disaster. Not to say he’s bothered by the act of killing, for when he finds it justified to end a man’s life, there’s often no reason to dawdle. No, the mess of it all perturbed him the most. 

Undeniably, the land he calls home is becoming a different entity than the one he was born into, a land of law and structure that spits upon his way of life. The West is becoming a docile place, its wildness broken by the cracking whip of civilization. And if the West can’t survive, then all hope is lost for men like him. The only logical step to ensure that he, and the people he cares for, won’t meet their fates at the end of a rope is to adapt to this changing world. This meant mess would have to be a thing of the past. No more massacres over stolen oil wagons and certainly not wiping out an entire town to free a man he didn’t care for from a cell he belonged in. No more innocent bystanders gruesomely losing their lives over foolishly shallow plans like the botched ferry job in Blackwater. No more lives need to be taken for his benefit or the ambitions of the man who guided him. Somehow though, that man didn’t see things the way he did.

Whenever he brought up these concerns, Dutch always told him, “Don’t be so simple-minded, Arthur. Look at the bigger picture.” 

But the bigger picture was all he could see, and it was a terrifying sight.

His heels sink into the damp earth as he makes his way to Saint’s Hotel, crossing his fingers that a room is available for the night. He made the mistake of riding his horse with a stomach full of liquor before, and somehow it almost ended up with him drowning. How he ended up sopping wet and his horse dry as a bone is still a mystery to him. So, a room at Saint's is in order since he doesn’t particularly care to die tonight, even despite the pervasive thoughts that plague him.

Just as he’s about to step onto the hotel’s wooden porch, he hears a loud banging noise come from behind him. He turns around and, in the darkness of night, sees a woman knocking on the front door of the general store across the street. She raps her knuckles a second time against the door, just as loud as the first. The door opens and out steps the store owner, looking irritated.

“Hi, I know you’re about to close, but I’ll just be a second, I promise!” She says this with her hands clasped together.

“Alright, alright. Come on in,” the man says, stepping aside so she can enter.

As the woman moves past the older man, light from inside the store hits her, and he can see her more clearly. She’s dressed simply with her hair loosely pulled back into a plait that falls past her shoulders. These things are ordinary enough, but then the light catches on a dainty pink flower tucked behind her ear on the left side.

He stops in his tracks.

It looks identical to the one he keeps at his bedside, a memento of his mother. However, those flowers, cliff maids, he thinks they’re called, only grow out west in the rocky terrain bordering Oregon and California. He’s a long way from California and possibly even further from a level head, so he dismisses the possibility, chalking it up to the delusions of a drunken old man.

He heads into the hotel, and thankfully a room is available, the same one as always. He closes the door behind him and starts fumbling with his gear, letting it hit the floor haphazardly in a heap. As he stumbles over to the bed, he regretfully catches a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror. He usually tries to avoid looking at himself unless it’s absolutely necessary. Simply put, he doesn’t like the look of the man who stares back at him. There’s a residual yellow blotch fading away on his cheekbone from a dust-up he’d been in a few days prior. He doesn’t even remember the reason. His shoulder-length hair has tangles he’s had no energy to comb through, and his eyes are lidded for want of sleep. They have a far-out look even when he’s staring right at himself. 

“Maybe it’s you that’s the mess,” he mumbles, then gives way to his exhaustion and collapses against the mattress. His boots, spurs and all, remain on his feet. So remain his worn trousers and unbuttoned maroon shirt, and so does the dirt caked beneath his nails that never seems to leave. 

He checks out of his room early the following day and rides out beneath a sky as golden as dandelions. His mind feels clearer after a night’s rest, and he thankfully doesn’t feel as dreadful as he did when his head hit the pillows. Dew hangs in the chilled air and mists his face as he takes the beaten winding path leading back to Clemen’s Point, this new place his people called home. As he rides, he passes by some cottages and homesteads a ways off the path. He can recall the inside layout of a few of them, and even which ones filled his pockets the most back when he first arrived in the Heartlands.

Tall, thick-bodied oak trees loom over him and dance in the morning breeze. The way the sunlight flickers through them is beautiful but unfamiliar. It quickly becomes apparent that he’s taken the wrong path somewhere along the way, but just when he’s about to wheel his horse around and turn back, there lies a cottage beyond the tree line. 

It’s a quaint wooden home with a thin stream of smoke rising from the chimney. In the window of the cottage sits a vase of pink flowers. The closer he rides, the more confident he is that they’re cliff maids. There must be at least twenty stems in that one vase.

“I’ll be damned….” He says under his breath.

Suddenly, he hears the sound of a woman grunting coming from the side of the home. He presses his heels to his horse’s belly and trots toward the noise source. When he turns the corner of the house, he sees her, the woman he saw last night, pushing a wheelbarrow spilling over with dirt. She attempts to use her weight against the handle, but it hardly makes a difference, and the wheelbarrow doesn’t budge.

He clears his throat to make his presence known to the woman.

“Jesus Christ!” She yelps and turns to face him, shocked to see she has company.

“Didn’t mean to frighten ya. D’ya need any help, ma’am?” He asks.

She looks him over with caution.

“Uh, I’m alright, thanks,” she says slowly, her brows warily drawn together.

Arthur nods his head with a tight-lipped smile and pulls the reins to head back to where he came from. He considers asking her about the flowers in the window but disregards it seeing as she doesn’t seem to care for company. As he begins back down the path, he hears a clattering noise and the sound of the woman cursing.

“Hey, mister!” She shouts. He looks over his shoulder and sees her standing with her hands on her hips and the wheelbarrow completely turned over, the dark soil spilling out onto the ground.

“I take that back.” She says with her head cocked to the side and a bashful smile.

He lightly chuckles at the sight and rides over, swiftly dismounting from his horse a few feet from the mild disaster.

“Could you help me scoop it back in?” She asks as she goes to the front of the wheelbarrow and picks up the dirt with yellow gloves.

“Sure,” he says, kneeling beside her. His hands are perpetually dirty as it is, so a little more filth couldn’t hurt. As he helps her pile the dirt back into the cart, he notices she smells earthy and sweet, reminiscent of the air before a storm.

“Alright,” she says, standing up and brushing her dirty gloves against her smock. “Would you mind wheelin’ it for me?”

He moves to grab the handles and pushes them down with ease so that the wheelbarrow can roll properly. 

“What’s all this dirt for anyways?” He asks the woman walking beside him.

“Just a project I’m working on. It’s back behind here, mister.” She points to the rear of the cottage, which quickly becomes dense with plant life the further they step. 

She crosses her arms over her chest as they enter the more secluded area.

“Don’t get any funny ideas, alright?” She says, looking up at him out of the corner of her eye.

He furrows his brows at the slight, but he can’t deny it makes sense she’s thinking that way. He looks the part of someone with foul intentions. The brim of his hat darkens his eyes, which would normally obscure them from anyone else. But, given that he's a head taller than the woman, she sees their darkness fine. He internally curses himself when he remembers he's wearing the one jacket stained with animal blood. It's still smeared dark brown across his shoulder. Of course, he looks like a damn menace. To top it all off, the rifle slung on his back casts a long shadow across her cheek like some twisted reminder of who he is, lest a single act of kindness threatens he forgets. 

He glances at her with a small smile that raises up on one side more than the other.

“Most of my ideas are funny, ma’am. But I ain’t gonna hurt you if that’s what you mean.”

Her shoulders drop from their tense position as she lets out a half-hearted laugh.

“I’ll take your word for it, mister,” she says, slightly more relaxed than before.

The grass starts to reach his knees, and all along the path are bushes and fruit-bearing shrubs with dangling under-ripe berries. Various species of flowers grow throughout the backyard in no organized manner, like they’d been living here long before anyone else. White bark trees stand tall amidst the entropic garden. Dark moss creeps up their trunks, and instead of leaves, canopies of draping blossoms erupt from the branches like something out of a storybook. They hang limply in the air, and when the wind tugs on them, they sway in synchronization while their blossoms flutter away in the breeze. It’s all so beautiful. He’s never seen an abundance of such natural beauty in all his life.

“Is this all yours?” He asks, turning to the lady with a near slack-jawed expression. 

“It is now,” she says, nodding her head. “My mama used to care for it, as did her mama before her. But uh- well, the flu took my mama a few years back, and as fate would have it, now my grandma’s flame is startin’ to flicker too. So it’s left to me to care for all this.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” he responds. Her voice sounds sad, and it reminds him somewhat of Ms. Adler, the widow staying with them for the time being.

“It’s okay,” she says, waving him off. “Sometimes in the darkness, there’s light, and this is definitely the light. I get to care for this thing, and in a way, it cares for me too. Gives me purpose, ya know?”

“S’Good to have somethin’ that makes you feel that way. Lord knows most people don’t.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that. Oh! I’ll hold the door open for ya.” She leaves his side and jogs ahead of him.

“Door? What door?” Arthur looks around, but he sees nothing but trees and plants.

Suddenly, she reveals an entrance blocked by the tall grass, and he realizes that a small building made entirely of glass is right before him. It camouflaged against the greenery and the vines that drape across it. Now that the door is ajar, he sees inside plants of all kinds strewn about in terracotta pots and deep soil beds.

“What in the….” He begins to say but trails off, caught off guard by the unexpected reveal.

A sort of giddiness takes her when she sees his expression, and she waves her hand excitedly to usher him inside. 

“Come in! Come in!” 

He rolls the wheelbarrow inside the structure, and once again, he’s greeted by the humble beauty of the natural world. Leaves spill out of pots hanging from the rafters, creating curtains that brush against him as he passes through. She gently closes the door behind him, and the air starts to feel thicker, heavier, like he’s being swaddled in a damp blanket.

The pots each have their own label, but the writing is so messy that he can hardly make out the names. Of the ones he can read, he recognizes names such as Sparrow’s Egg, Clamshell, and Dragon’s Mouth. They’re exotic flowers that the corset man in Saint Denis once asked him to collect, but he never got around to doing it. If only he had enough time to frolic through fields and pluck orchids. He’d prefer that over the menial errands he’s been consumed by as of late.

“Back here!” The woman shouts.

He can’t see her behind the tall plant-filled shelves that take up the center of the room, so he pushes past the vines and turns the corner to see her standing next to an empty plant bed. She looks at him expectantly because his task is clearly to dump the soil. But his mind is elsewhere. Behind her is another plant bed. This one is full and brimming with cliff maids so densely packed that he can hardly see the soil they’re in. He’s never seen so many of these flowers in one place. Whenever he found one in the wild, it was usually nestled between two rocks and sprouted three or four blooms. They weren’t nearly as impressive as the ones infront of him.

“What is it?” She asks when he remains in his spot. She follows his gaze and gasps.

“Why, are you a gardener too, mister?” Her voice gets high with excitement.

“Who, me?” He laughs. “No, ma’am. I’m no gardener. I’d make for a pretty awful one seein’ as I’m not too good at keepin’ things alive.”

“Oh, forgive me. I just- you seemed interested in the perennials. Most people aren’t, considerin’ how unassuming they look. Pretty things but nothing outwardly special about ‘em.” She moves towards the tall blossoms and reaches out her hand to stroke the petals. 

“You know, they don’t like it here,” she continues. “They like the sun, which would be easy enough if they liked the heat that came with it, but no, it’s the cool shade of cliffs and rocks they like. These little blooms aren’t easy to care for, but if you can figure it out, they’ll live all through the years. That’s what perennial means, after all. Anyways, these guys are my favorite. I think it’s cause they give me such a hard time.”

She twiddled with the petals between her fingers as she rambled about the flowers. When she finally looks back at him, it’s like she has stars twinkling in her eyes. There’s a new liveliness about her, something that sparked when she was given room to air out her affinity for the pink blossoms. Arthur stands there, attempting to wrap his mind around the unlikely chance of finding someone who holds this particular flower as close to their heart as he does. He doesn't notice his aforementioned heart beating a little faster in his chest.

“I- I like ‘em too.” The words clumsily stumble from his mouth when he realizes she’s waiting for him to speak. He quickly gathers himself. 

“I mean, it was my ma that liked ‘em, but I guess she sorta rubbed off on me. They're pretty little things.”

“You’re kiddin’... what are the odds?” 

He can tell she’s thinking about something during the half-beat of silence that follows, but he can’t find any hint of what it is when he searches her face.

“I never got your name, mister,” she says abruptly.

“Arthur,” he says. “Just Arthur.”

“What, you ain’t got a last name, Just Arthur?” She laughs.

He considers telling her his real name but quickly dismisses it. On the off-chance she recognizes it from the bounty posters, it would mean that whatever was happening here would come to an unfortunate end. Of course, no harm would befall her, but he’d have to leave and go right back to his mess of a life. He’d rather stay here, in the sanctity of the greenhouse, with this person he strangely feels like he was meant to meet. 

“Oh, I didn’t realize we were on a full name basis, ma’am,” he says flippantly, but he can’t help the smile that forms when she raises her eyebrows at him.

“Well, Arthur, you have good taste,” she says playfully, but her gaze falls to the wheelbarrow he’s still holding, and her eyes widen. “Oh, that must be heavy. I talked so long, I forgot you still had that. Go ahead and pour it into that empty bed right there.” She gestures with a quick wave of her hand.

He looks down at the wheelbarrow he also forgot he was holding and does as she says, tilting the lip of it into the wooden frame and letting the soil spill out. 

She smiles at him and pats his shoulder before leading him out of the greenhouse. They step back outside, and the cool air is a welcome feeling. He props the wheelbarrow against the wall of the structure while she shuts the door behind her.

“Thank you again. I would’ve had a much harder time without you there,” she says.

He wipes his soiled hands on the front of his jeans and opens his mouth to speak, but when he looks at her, she’s already looking at him with a gaze sweet as honey. It makes his breath catch in his chest. Not many women have looked at him like that before, and hardly any were as easy on the eyes as her. A thread of sunlight catches her eyes and reveals faint traces of amber, like sap spilling from the source. Her long lashes flutter when she blinks, and they rest against the soft edge of her brow as she looks up at him. Her hair, woven into a braid, is loose, disheveled like she’d slept in it. Stray strands feather around her jaw and frame the angles of her face, not unlike ornate golden borders that surround paintings in a gallery.

He clears his throat upon realizing he’s been gawking at the poor woman like some boyish fool.

“Ah, it was nothin',” he says, directing his attention elsewhere as heat creeps up his cheeks. 

A dragonfly jitters down from above and lands on the stem of some thyme growing over a narrow creek. Water trickles over smooth stones into a basin where leaves float along the surface. Some of them sprout delicate white flowers that open up to the sky. A thought comes to him as he looks at them.

“If it’s not too much trouble, would it be alright if I draw a picture of this place?” He asks. He’s never had to ask anyone permission for this sort of thing before; it felt unnatural. But it certainly would’ve been more so if he’d asked her what he really wanted, which was to draw her alongside it.

She tilts her head and looks up at him curiously.

“How charming…” She says, then ponders it for a second. “I don’t mind as long as you let me see it after.”

He chuckles, “Alright, just don’t make fun of it.”

“I would never!” She says, feigning indignance. “My mama taught me manners, Arthur! That means if it’s bad, I’ll just make fun of it in my head. Now go do your thing. I also have some work to do.”

She waves him off with a smile and steps back inside the greenhouse, closing the door behind her. He lets out a sigh, the tight feeling in his chest relinquishing now that he’s finally alone. He walks over to a bench along the path and sits down, taking his journal from his satchel and flipping to a new blank page. Before him, tall pink flowers that smell of vanilla cast long, dark shadows over the smaller flowering shrubs surrounding them. If they weren’t so dainty looking, their height and the size of their leaves would give the impression they own the place. He gives them the most detail in his drawing. Then he starts to etch the dirt path, adding the indentation the wheel of the wheelbarrow had left behind and the imprint of the woman’s footprints next to his. Just as he finishes up the sketch, adding minute details in the leaves, he hears light footfall behind him.

On instinct, his hand moves to hover above his holster, but once he sees what’s behind him, he feels ridiculous for it.

“Hey,” she says quietly, a sheepish smile on her face. She holds nearly a dozen cliff maids in her hands, stems clipped and bound together with a thread of twine.

“I thought you might like to have these.”

He looks at her for a moment, unsure what to do or say. She’s giving him flowers. No one has ever given him flowers before. That was usually something a man might do if he were sweet on a lady, a gesture shared between lovers. But maybe for a woman who spends all day surrounded by them, it must not have the same romantic meaning he knows it does.

“Those are for me?” He asks. His hands hang loosely at his sides. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

She nods. “If you want.”

The talkative woman from earlier seems to have been replaced by someone different entirely, her sentences suddenly simple and sweet. He also struggles to find the right words.

“That’s too kind of you. Truly.” He reaches out to take them, and she places the bundle gingerly in his hands. 

His hold is gentle for fear he’d snap the stems if not careful. He knows he has to look a little silly. A man as rough around the edges as himself, with ammunition draped across his chest and pistols hanging at his hips, holding an overflowing bouquet of pink blossoms as a gift from a lady. If Dutch could see him now, he’d tell him he lost his edge. But if this is what it feels like to have gone soft, then he doesn't mind that much. The warmth in his chest is too comforting a feeling to let go of.

Her sudden gasp brings him out of his head.

“Is that the drawing?!” She points at the journal lying open on the bench. There’s no time to answer before she reaches over the seat to hold the leatherbound book in her hands.

“Wow… I- you captured it perfectly,” she says, her mouth slightly hanging in awe. “I didn’t expect anything like this.”

“You’re just minding your manners.”

She lightly thwacks him on the arm.

“You’d know if I was, I’m not a good liar. No, this is something special.”

He hardly knows a thing about this woman, and yet for some reason, her songs of praise feel so good that he wants to make ten more drawings. Hell, he’ll move as much dirt as she wants if it means she’ll look at him the way she is now each time. As her eyes flit between him and the sketch, he feels a fondness growing that he could’ve never anticipated when he first laid eyes on her. God, he almost feels like a boy again. It’s a feeling he hasn’t experienced in ages since he was last with Mary. Though, admittedly those feelings were guided by something less innocent than what he feels right now. What’s happening to him?

She clasps her hands together and takes a sharp intake of breath.

“Arthur, would you, um- would you like something to drink before you head out?” She asks. “I have just about anything.”

Without giving it much thought, he opens his mouth to answer, but a ringing noise sounds before the words can come out. It’s a clear jingling sound of a bell, and it’s coming from the house. 

“Oh, never mind. It seems like my grandmother needs me,” she sighs and hands back his journal. “Maybe another time?”

“Another time,” he agrees with a thin smile, deflating slightly at the abrupt goodbye.

She walks briskly to the back door and slips inside the house, the door swinging shut loudly behind her. He approaches his horse he’d left hitched to the woman’s front porch and goes to find a place to secure the flowers. As he’s slipping them through a notch on the saddle, the front door flies open.

She steps out, looking grateful he hasn’t left yet.

“Hey!” She calls out to him. She stands at the edge of the top step with one hand on her hip and the other shading her eyes from the sun.

“I’m sure you know already, but those can only last so long now that they’re cut. Perennials live all through the years but only when they’re planted,” she says, shifting her weight on the step.

Arthur’s mouth parts slightly as he searches for the words to respond.

“Oh. Alright.”

She sighs and brings her hand to her forehead in an exasperated motion.

“Okay- what I’m trying to say but failing at, is that when those flowers start to wilt, you come and find me.”

He tilts his head down, so the brim of his hat hides the smile forcing its way onto his lips. He hadn’t been sure if she was just being polite before, if every word was mere courtesy. But now, part of him felt that maybe some of it was more than that. He could at least tell for certain that she liked him, and that was enough.

“I’ll do that, miss. You take care of yourself, now.”

She then waves him goodbye before heading back inside.

The sun has risen high above his head by the time he returns to camp. Everything seems to be just as he left it a few days ago. Dutch is sitting outside his tent with a book in his hands, a finger pensively to his lips. Some men are sharpening their weapons or cleaning their guns and talking to one another while they work. Over by the campfire, Micah gestures wildly to Bill and Javier, who sit on the log by his feet. 

“If we leave at dusk, they should be sittin’ pretty at the station a while before leaving for town. So once things get movin’, I say Javier handles the lockbox, I’ll deal with Walton and his lady wife, and Bill, you hang back in case anyone else shows up.”

Javier looks up from polishing his pistol, “You don’t think Walton’s going to have any extra protection? He’s carrying a lot of goods, it’d be stupid for him not to.”

“Well, that’s what Bill’s for. Ain’t that right, Bill?”

Bill nods his head with a serious expression. “Damn right.”

As Arthur listens to this conversation, it’s as if he can see a dark thread spinning and tangling itself into a knot. A knot on top of a knot, on top of another. Soon enough, the thread will become one giant, twisted mess so tightly entwined it’ll be nearly impossible to unravel. The way things are headed, this seems like the only plausible ending for his people. But before that happens, the Pinkertons will likely find them again, and they’ll be packing their things again, only prolonging this mess of things a little bit longer, letting it become bigger than it ever needed to be. People will keep dying for nothing like they always have, and maybe he’ll be one of them, an unfortunate tally added to their death toll, necessary for the bigger picture.

The young woman had the right of it. Her words still echo in his head even now. 

Perennials live all through the years, but only when they’re planted. Only when they’re planted. 

The world won’t open its arms to drifters, even with a pistol pressed to its head. It’s past time they grow some roots, start living like people, and stop living like wild animals backed into a corner. Sure, there’s no glory in honest work but there sure as hell isn’t any in dying. Arthur had given this idea some thought before. He wouldn’t mind settling, living a simple life working odd jobs, or even finding work on a ranch somewhere. A peaceful life, a predictable one; it sounded just fine in his head.

He passes by Mary Beth and Tilly, scrubbing clothes on a washboard and laughing. Tilly looks up from her busy hands and waves at him.

“Hey, Arthur!”

“Hey there, Miss Jackson,” he says with a friendly nod.

He finds his tent and sets the bundle of flowers down on the cot before reaching into his satchel. 

“Are those flowers, Arthur Morgan?” 

He jumps as Tilly’s voice is suddenly right behind him.

“What the hell! Don’t sneak up on me like that, girl,” he says, turning to face her and Mary Beth standing just outside his tent.

“My goodness, they are!” Mary Beth says, her hand flying to her mouth. “Where did you find those?”

“A lady,” he responds, biting his cheek to force away a smile he doesn't want them to see. He doesn't want to be stuck rattling off every detail to the excitement-starved women. 

“Like, you purchased them from a lady?” Mary Beth leans forward and raises her eyebrows.

“They were… given to me,” he reluctantly admits as he places the stems inside a gin bottle on the table. He moves a few of them around so they look nice.

“Don’t tell us they’re from Mary, Arthur.” Tilly's voice goes low with disappointment, no longer seeming excited.

He grimaces at the thought. “No! No, they’re not from Mary. I met a woman earlier today, and she gave them to me, that’s all.”

The two women quickly glance at each other and share an enthusiastic look.

“Arthur Morgan, you’re in love!” Mary Beth nearly squeals.

He scoffs loudly, “I am not in love. I hardly know the woman!”

“Well, she’s surely in love then. What kind of person just gives someone flowers if they ain’t sweet on’em?” Tilly says matter-of-factly.

“Exactly! So when are you gonna see her again?” Mary Beth asks.

“I don’t know,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. He should’ve known this conversation would happen. He should’ve sucked up his pride and said he purchased the flowers for himself to have avoided it entirely. “She told me to come back when they start to die, so whenever that is, I guess.”

Mary Beth hums and looks past him at the flowers in their makeshift vase. 

“Hmm… well, they look a little limp if you ask me. Dare I say… dead even? What do ya think, Tilly?” 

Tilly nods her head dismally, but even she can’t hide her smile, “Yeah, look at ‘em. They’re all sad-lookin’. Seems like you’ll need to head over first thing in the morning. Just to be sure.”

He shakes his head and laughs, “Alright, out. Both of ya. I can’t take it no more.”

He takes both women by their shoulders and guides them away from his tent despite their protests.

“We just want you to be happy, Arthur! Is that so bad?” Tilly cries out.

“I know, I know. Thank you, ladies. But I’m happiest when people ain't meddlin’ in my private business. Now go on.”

“This ain’t the end of it, Arthur!” Mary Beth calls out as they both walk away. They start talking animatedly as they return to work and keep throwing glances that he can only shake his head at.

Later that night, Arthur sits alone at one of the tables, eating his stew and staring off into the water. Most everyone else is off doing their own things, evening chores, and such. He's in the middle of bringing the bowl to his lips to get the last bit of broth when Mary Beth sits down beside him.

She keeps her word, not letting him hear the end of her numerous questions. Some of them he entertains, like when she asks what the garden looked like, and if she can see his drawing to get a better idea. He can practically see the story forming behind her eyes.

"What's she look like?" She asks, leaning against her hand on the table. "I'm picturing a sort of Isabelle Standish type in my head."

"Ah, come on now. You can't ask those sorts of things."

"Oh, Arthur! Please! This is the most exciting thing I've heard in so long. Just give me something to work with!" She gives him a pleading look, to which he dramatically rolls his eyes at.

"Alright. Well, she gives them girls on cigarette cards a run for their money, I'll tell you that."

She giggles, and asks him, "So when are you gonna see her again?"

He shrugs his shoulders, "I don't know yet."

“You don’t want to keep her waiting too long,” she says, in warning.

“Nah, I think she’ll be plenty busy without me. I’ll give it a few days.”

“A few days? But what if tomorrow another man comes by and sweeps her off her feet? What if she gives him flowers and forgets all about you because you took too long?” Her voice gets higher as she spitfires these potential events. 

“Mary Beth. If I visit her tomorrow, I’ll look like an idiot.” His face scrunches up, cringing at the thought. "And if that's really what happens then I can't do nothin' about that."

“Well, if I were her, I’d find it romantic,” she says and pats his hand on the table.

“Yeah, well, you find a lotta odd things romantic,” he chuckles, thinking back on the strange things in her novellas that have made her kick her feet.

For a second, it looks like she can’t tell if she should be offended. But then she joins him in laughter, giggling at herself.

“You might be right about that!”

Following his talk with Mary Beth, he retreats to his tent and slumps in his cot. He closes his eyes and turns to face the side of the wagon, but sleep doesn't come easy. The cot creaks beneath him as he shifts, trying to get comfortable. He groans and rolls over, opening his eyes to stare into the darkness. Against the dark canvas of his tent, he can make out the silhouette of the cliff maids standing tall in their bottle. He traces the outline of their leaves and thinks back to the woman and her garden, the tranquility of her home, and the opposing restlessness of his heart whenever she looked at him. Before he’s ushered into unconsciousness, a strange thought enters his head that he can only explain away as the delirium of drowsiness. It was that in the distant future, he could see himself settling down, working odd jobs, or finding work on a ranch, sure. But maybe, the preposterous idea of taking care of flowers wasn't so bad neither.