#fic inspired by my experiences with ocd and seeing that in Bo

[charleslee-valentine]

Cats in The Cradle

Characters: Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair (no ships)

Word Count: ~6,000

Warnings: Abuse, cyclical abuse, toxic dynamics, Bo has complications from the surgery (missing cerebellum) and obsessive compulsive disorder, mental breakdowns, gun violence, delusions, religious trauma, implied sexual abuse, murder and the wax figures, Bo being mean to Vincent, blood and injury, vomiting, medical irresponsibility, paranoia, trauma bond.

~~~~~~~

Every day in Ambrose is the same. It’s when there’s change the trouble comes along.

Makes Lester world-weary. Got to run off on his little rot-filled road trips for some air. Though he stays tethered to the house, even if only at the end of the night, when he’s got to wander home for normalcy. It ain’t about the protection, he’s got a slugger under the seat for that, and it ain’t the occasional cooking his brothers get up to and burn each time either. He’s grown enough get shit done, even if it’s the ass crack of dawn outside and he ain’t eaten in a whole day, he’ll whip somethin’ up.

That’s the argument anyhow. That he can take well enough good care of himself to be allowed to roam some. Don’t make sense that he’d be the first, bein’ the youngest and all, but the antsier he got, the messier he got with the huntin’, and suddenly his big brothers had to leave Ambrose to track some fella that got out through the trees Lester was s’posed to be watchin’.

Thought that would get him strung up himself. A perfect wax Lester placed inside Trudy’s pride and joy tendin’ to little, pure wax, babies. Maybe down the pet store with Jonsey’s pups that never come to be, or shovelin’ shit out in the cemetery. That’d be like them, to leave him outside to melt and wither away.

Never come though. Got him a reprimandin’ sure, but he left it with a smile anyhow knowin’ big brother wasn’t gonna use his own bowie to slit his throat. And then again when Vinny told him he could leave on the condition he started tendin’ to himself and his chores without help from either brother, and come home every night.

Really if it were up to Vincent, they’d all get the same freedoms, but it weren’t. Never was going to be, when Mama kept him firm in her shadow. Bo’d kill ‘em all if he caught wind of Lester’s thinkin’ it, but fact is he figures Bo just replaced Mama when she keeled over.

Trudy was out her mind the last few years of it. Never went to no homes, despite what Bo likes to tell folks. They stayed and fixed Mama up. Ambrose got empty and miss Trudy got needy. It was every day pickin’ up shifts the tradesmen was droppin’, leavin’ the schoolhouse forever. Old fashioned as it was, s’not like they was learnin’ anything in a one-room, all-grades schoolhouse anyhow.

Still woulda been nice to have a shot at normal. Coulda left with the rush and forgot about highchairs and smelly wax. Nope.

Now Bo’s jus’ as mean as Trudy, enforcin’ his rule with the same flat palm. ‘Cept’n the part where his is rung around with scars.

Different, ‘cause Trudy’s off burnin’ in hell, not missed by a soul, but they stick close with Bo. Know it ain’t really his fault.

The Doc called it compulsions. Some kinda disorder come from havin’ to lose a piece or two of the lowest part of his brain in the surgery. Lester never gonna forget bein’ tiny as can be, sat on the table cause Trudy put him down and forgot him there, while Bo, who seemed so much older back then when the six years made a difference, was strapped down. They’d use the highchair still if they could, but he was too big and awful by then.

Shove him in a standard dining chair and tape his arms underneath. Let him cry and try to kick and pull and bare his teeth. Lester was just learnin’ to speak, and he’d asked what was happening’, curious about all the shouting and pain.

Bo told a little lie turns out. Same thing with the surgery, his mind would wander back then, forgetting what made reality real and made the stuff in his head not. He carved up some critter and left it in the art studio. Said Trudy gave him permission. Well she didn’t. Little Vinny was her artist, and notably, nowhere to be seen in this memory, autonomous enough to stay away, but never going far.

Must’ve hurt him too, listenin’ to Bo losin’ his mind now and again. Knowin’ it was him that leeched off the back of his head and absorbed that one important little piece out his skull. Payback for the whole, not having a tongue, thing.

Nowadays Bo’s a little better, but Ambrose still got to be pretty particular to not send him right back to the pale, polished arms of the hallucinations. Those belong in the casket down the road.

Lester blames Trudy. Even when he goes with to honor her when Bo needs to do it. Every Sunday is when he’s down there, so ‘less he’s got a job Lester’ll come down to see. Vincent’s usually there too, if nobody been through in a while.

They take off their hats and masks, bow their heads, and pray. They pretend they don’t notice Bo’s hips and knees splayed wide in an arc and struggling to walk straight when that metaphorical mask of the Doc’s training wares off. His hands shake. His words don’t come out right. Sometime’s Lester’s the only one in the house usin’ words, while the twins do their motioning about.

Really should’ve gotten more interested in those sign language books he’d been given way back when. It was funny, a lady on the TV could use sign ‘cause she couldn’t hear words and that meant she couldn’t make ‘em. Trudy saw it and was livid. Banned them all from 123 Sesame Street and whooped Bo for even turning it on. Like it was bad to communicate.

If Vincent knew how to make his signs back then, maybe he’d have told the papers the truth. After all it was Mama that did the talking. Givin’ him words gave him the chance to say no. To bein’ her little protege and heir. Like hell she’d ever let that happen. Had to teach it to himself in secret. Bo picked it up from watchin’ and snatchin’ up Vinny’s books and papers to tease.

Lester wishes he were that smart. Hell, Doc even said it himself, sometimes seemed like he was born with even less brain than Beauregard. ‘Cept he had a different name for Bo all the boys promised never to repeat. They’d get nasty, but none of that usin’ Mama and Papa against each other.

Prolly why they’s too scared to tell Bo he’s becomin’ like Trudy. Stumblin’, shakin’, pissed at everything.

Ambrose falls well into his liking. Bo got it all down to memory.

Bodies he don’t like don’t even go on display. Vincent could work his big ass off on a statue for weeks, but if Bo couldn’t squeeze it into however he’d categorized the town in imaginary gridlines, they’d be put on reserve. The wax house held the rejects, mostly. Once upon a time Vincent left Lester a note tellin’ him he sometimes dressed the statues up funny and messed up their makeup if they were his favorites, so Bo would reject them, and he’d get to keep ‘em. Worked every time too.

Be nice if they could laugh about things like that anymore. ‘Specially with Bo.

A new batch come through back in the early spring, just a couple months shy of a year or so ago then, and filled up lots of the empty space. Mostly went to the theater. Baby Jane and sister Blanche didn’t used to be lightin’ the place up with their sad story, they just tossed an old closed sign up ‘til the bodies rolled in.

It pissed Bo off when Lester was helpin’ him and wanted to put his statues in a line. Made sense, like they was all friends together! But Bo had it all mapped in his head, talkin’ who’s clothes matched who, color in their hair matchin’ with the number on their seats. That was more confusin’ than his fits.

Most of the time in Ambrose his workday was tidying, checkin’ on rat traps and the like. But sometimes when Lester could slip in a lunch break or two off patrol he’d see Bo pacin’. Drawin’ lines in the sky with his hands, mutterin’, kickin’ things. Like inside the theater but on the whole town.

Funny thing is they do gotta crown a new Miss Ambrose once in a while.

The silky bright colors of a beauty queen dress stand out far too much against the pale, sunfaded town they live in. Her smile too white, the makeup too sparkly. Bo tears the bodies to bits and takes them back to Vinny, like a child with his broken toy.

There’s nothin’ he can do, and they both know it, but Bo is different from Trudy in that he will admit regret. Not directly, he’d sooner swallow a gator in one bite, but showin’ the broken pieces is still better than tyin’ ‘em down to hide.

At least most of the time it ain’t like that. One thing he’s always picky about is the lights. Town gotta come to life some time, but Bo’s got a tradition. Generators don’t kick on ‘til he flips the switch manually, else he’ll block the sky with the burning neons of mom’s and pop’s updating with the times, and firey orange street lights. Bo insists they don’t got color. Just a disgusting haze that makes it hard to see. Lester takes the accusation of him being wrong, even though he knows it’s Bo’s head.

And he’s gotta see the sky. Star light, star bright, first star and all that- it’s his one shot at a wish. Not even his brother’s knows what he wishes for each night, peekin’ his head out the window ‘fore callin’ down to Vincent to flip the switch.

Maybe to make Ambrose perfect the way he sees it in his head, so he can stop runnin’ around town tryin’ to adjust it all. Finding those little pockets of feelings and digging in until anythin’ that stands out has to go.

Way back when, Lester kinda hoped Bo would set him free by thinkin’ he didn’t match. Not like he was part of the squirming mass his brother’s was born as. Nobody remembered Lester. Not for bein’ quiet and shy or for bein’ devilish.

Longer he stays though, he knows it’s not really Bo takin’ real care of Ambrose. His head needs it perfect, destroyin’ progress for somethin’ only he can reach and grasp and toss about like it means anything as a scolding hot weapon. Perfection burns hotter, stings worse than wax, and Trudy Sinclair wanted both from her boys.

Trudy might’ve been sick physically, but it come along long before that. Only a matter of time before Bo’s head gets angry ‘bout the dank environment up there and tries to plug it’s missing bits with the same cancer that took Mama the rest of the way to hell.

She had to’ve been there before she died. Else she wouldn’t have done what she did on her way out. Her last words. “Beauregard. Bo.. Promise me you’ll keep Ambrose tidy. You were Mama’s boy. Kept things in line. Don’t let it got to chaos, to hell.”

It was bullshit. If she weren’t already gasping for life Lester might’ve grabbed her throat then and there. Vince knew it too, cause he stepped in front of Les and went to Bo. Chest to back, the way they was conjoined, he’d tried to force his whispers with his half of a tongue, getting at least his twin’s attention to start gesturing.

“Don’t listen.”

“Mama is a liar.”

“You know how you are. You know how she is. Don’t.”

It was hopeless.

That word again. The Doc said compulsions, well sometimes he also said obsessions. Same disorder, different symptom. Neither one Bo could escape. Even if he’d been listenin’ to his brother, which he wasn’t.

All he heard was Hell and that was enough. Bo was terrified of the spiritual. They all oughta remember the way he’d been in church, even when it was full, bawlin’ his head off, havin’ those fits ‘cause he thought he was goin’ to face demons and hellfire for breakin’ rules. The panic meant he kept breakin’ rules, and he kept gettin’ scared, and so on.

It was a trap to scare kids into bein’ good, nothin’ worth anythin’ in adult life, but those Sunday mornin’s Bo kneels at Trudy’s coffin and prays for real, not just at her but at any God that will listen and spare him and his brothers. If Ambrose can be a haven, when it reaches that state of perfection, they’ll be guaranteed eternal life away from screamin’ babies and burning wrists and “please Mama I was doin’ my best-“

The script Bo operates on never ceases. Pretty girls get their mouths glued shut so they have to follow it. Lester drives the same route to catch the same folks and scrape the same families of deer off the roads. Hell it ain’t official, if it were he couldn’t keep the little trinkets and bones he does. Or the meat. But it covers well and no government gonna complain about free labor from a guy like him.

With the girls, they’re just like the deer. Bo takes their pictures and calls them sweet things, but he’s on repeat. Same task, get the restraints, tune out the noise or find a way to stop it, stay sickly sweet with ‘em all the while. Throw in some affection so they don’t fight so much.

Just. Like. Mama.

Lester don’t much like toyin’ with the art. Feels like goin’ in a museum and draggin’ your fingers all over the paint. Which actually is somethin’ Bo would probably do, if it wasn’t up to his standard, takin’ the whole frame and just tossin’ it right out. But they stay neat and displayed on his cellar walls, in scattered checkerboard rows that Bo thinks are straight across.

Thing that always stumps Lester, and Vincent actually, is when he catches Bo slicing little knicks under his fingertips. His palms. Adding newer scars to the thick band around each of his wrists. Always says the girls died too soon. Broke the script, the rules. Now he’s gotta make up for the pain that would be cast into the realm of Ambrose if it weren’t for the failure of another little miss coulda been the one. As if.

They ain’t for keeps. Nothin’ is. Ambrose changes, and changes, and changes. Still every day is the same.

Wake up at a certain time, make the rounds, play pretend, sit itchin’ by the one landline behind a locked door that works, waitin’ for Lester’s call home. If it don’t come in a few minutes, it’s down to make his rounds countin’ heads. Move a few things this way and that on the store shelves. Hang up a picture or two cut out meticulously (as shaky hands can be) from books and magazines, a mimic of the ranging advertisements on display in the bigger cities.

Not a mimic. A replication. Nothin’ bad, nothin’ wrong- that thing is not my baby!

Bo spirals a lot. When he’s on his own. Part of why he’s got to dig his hands so deep into Ambrose. There’s shame in it he tries to squash down with mixtures of somethin’ too strong for a normal day. Mixin’ rum and brandy in a big bottle of orange juice. Vodka in his morning coffee.

Drunk Bo is more coordinated than sober. That little cocktail comes to work with him, and he makes do. Let it be known he isn’t the twin to come away with an issue. Can’t be. He’s mama’s boy, remember?

Lester is sickened by it. Watchin’ his trances like that, knowin’ it’s all ‘cause of Trudy in her final moments.

Shit they didn’t even need to do the killin’, ‘f Bo coulda got his head screwed on a right way. Too late now ‘course. They’re hundreds of innocent lives deep in this thing. Got themselves a dog outta killin’ her owner. Another responsibility, a life to keep up.

Jonsey herself stresses Bo out to no end. Her wagging tail, her happy jumpin’ when she recognizes her dearest friends. When she barks at creaky staircases settlin’ at night, his jaw sets so tight his teeth creak audibly. If he got a cut, he won’t touch the dog. Says it’ll kill him to get any of her in with his blood. Seems silly to Lester, by Bo’s designation the one that plays in guts and bone splinters all day, gettin’ plenty of that himself.

Sometimes a storm’ll roll through in rain season and bring some nasty wind with it, scarin’ the life outta the poor puppy dog. She starts to shake and drool all over. It makes Bo so nauseous to watch he has to leave the room or hack up that nasty concoction he drinks that shouldn’t be stayin’ down anyhow.

Vince stays, always stays, ‘cause someone’s got to. Bo’s a flight risk and Lester just don’t much like bein’ the trapped one. So it’s a system set in stone, or carved in blood and bone more like. Breathed in like the ashes of Bo’s more or less wasted cigarettes.

Way Lester sees it, just like the papery stubs, the routine gotta but extinguished ‘fore they all choke to death on it.

But he hadn’t meant for things to get so different.

Like even thinkin’ it cursed the place, he sends one scrawny group their way and suddenly Bo’s bleedin’ all over the kitchen tiles. Wouldn’t even know it if Vincent hadn’t dialed his bother’s number and left the phone in Bo’s pocket. Keepin’ tabs on his pain so Lester can hear it all and know somethin’s up.

The arrow in his chest stays right there, until Lester pulls up. Somethin’ about knowing Vince called in backup is sign enough to take it serious. Insists on doing it himself though.

Lester says they oughta snip the arrow where it lies and take him to emergency later on. Bo says he’d rather die now than leave a vulnerable spot stickin’ six inches out his chest. Yanks it ‘til his knees buckle and he damn near smacks his teeth off the linoleum. Then vomits stinking alcohol everywhere.

Vincent can see it ain’t gonna happen that way, and locks eyes with Lester. Tells him mentally to pass on an apology for what he’s about to do. Which is, he grabs the arrow by just under the fletchings and yanks the damn thing out before Bo can lose his shit over splinters and weakness and all that.

Well, he loses his shit anyhow, screamin’ bloody murder that he’s gonna kill Vincent for that. Only for a moment before he blacks the hell out from the pain. Prob’ly won’t even remember callin’ Vince a freak.

The hunt goes on without ‘im, without what would’ve been -though Lester never likes admitting when his big brother is right- a weak point for the shifty ass kids to stick their fingers into. End up gettin’ a pretty good knock on ‘em too.

Just like before the girly made it out almost to the roads, but Lester’s a better shot than Bo. Don’t got those phantom shakes and all. Though Vinny would hafta to pick all that bullet scrap out if they was to use her as a figure.

The next time Bo’s conscious, he’s demanding to see what Vincent gonna do with the statues. And it’s a damn good thing they didn’t set out on digging up the shrapnel, ‘cause Bo’s pissed about the arrows, and the shop windows, and the church goers, and the house. It’s all messed up, that safety cushion gone and deflated in one night.

Can’t make art outta enemies. This particukar chase weren’t fun or even close to it. No bright side to it.

Bo wants them destroyed. All of ‘em at first, but Vincent won’t ‘llow that. Threatens to hop in the yellow truck again and take off just like last time knowing damn well it pissed Bo off and was the reason he took two still bleeding blows.

They gets rid of the twins, the girl and the boy ‘ gave ‘em the most trouble. Let Bo decide what he wants done with ‘em.

Could shred ‘em up, sink ‘em to the bottom of the road kill pit, though Lester’s hesitant to do so knowin’ the same group was already thinkin’ he hid bodies in it ‘stead of jus’ Trudy’s old model mannequins. There’s always the marshland they’d rot away in nicely, unnoticed.

He wants ‘em gone though. Not buried and rotting, not waxed over into someone new, gone.

Burn the bodies. Peel the flesh. Boil the bones. Smash ‘em into dust. Mix it in with Vincent’s pigments. Their crystallized, powdered remains make for some perfect shiny makeup on the blonde’s eyelids, and extra sparkle in her wax-cast jewelry.

Felt fitting, to adorn another member of the group in those two’s particular sins. It was them two that got the rest killed so brutally after all.

Speaking of sin.

Bo slept in the church for a few nights, sprawled painfully over a dusty pew, nothing but a jacket as cushion against the solid wood. Ambrose was different now. The order had been broken and he needed to hide from the wrath that would bring.

Mama’s empty husk of a corpse wouldn’t help him. He just hoped the proximity to the altar would get some divine figure’s eyes on him, even if not her. At least send down a quick recovery so he can fucking fix the mess those kids left behind.

The pain, he can swallow, but some part of his system got fucked over right into overdrive and now he’s got no control of his shakes. His legs are as bowed as they’ve ever been, limpin’ and draggin’ himself all this way to the church was humiliating enough. No way he’s installing fresh window panes and rearranging statues to his heart’s content like this.

The dog comes and gets Bo first in the morning. Sunlight pourin’ in through the stained windows, Bo feels like he’s burnin’ up in hellfire instead of kissed by heavenly rays. Or the sticky tongue of a staffordshire terrier. Pitbull mix. Whatever the fuck the mutt is.

Jonesy is always a sign Vincent is close, ‘nd Bo cannot, will not let either of his brotherd see he’s all but given up. Their ignorant little asses are s’pose to be none the wiser he even left the house last night.

The ramblings of a man happens to be clueless that they both watched his sorry ass limp on down there, fallin’ to his knees once and skid down the hill. Anyone alive in Ambrose could’ve heard him cry out when he jammed his busted up shoulder tryin’ to catch himself and struggled for a few minutes to throw weight into his legs and stand. His gait was fucked but so were his patterns, zig-zagging from one side of the road to the next and never knowin’ it.

Really he’d blacked out in the first empty pew, taking no time to get comfortable. It wasn’t about comfort, it was necessity. A shield around his already wounded heart. His brother’s checked on him every few hours.

Bo’s blood stains the church now, far beyond a dried raisin of a corpse in the center of the holy building. Trudy’s eternal wake seems more and more pointless. Her soul can’t be saved for the life she inflicted on her trio of tragic babes. But her son can. Even the devil on earth can be shown God’s graces if he could just fucking stand up and-

He’s humbled by Jonesy. She was his chance to get his ass up and find whichever one of his asshole brothers sicked the bitch on him. The way she curls up next to his boot, singular, that he managed to get off but not back on is her final brag. ‘You lost. Now my caretakers ‘re yours too.’

As expected, right on cue, Vincent creeps in the church then, forever stomping in too heavy boots, settling into the pew in front of Bo. Silent. Back turn so signs won’t work.

“Fuck you.” Is the first thing out of his mouth. Bo repeats it ‘til he vomits a pathetic tiny cough of spit and stomach acid onto the ruined floors.

Vincent doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react to being screamed at. He’s not the one with open wounds. Never fucking has been.

“I’m talking to you, freak!”

That word again. Bo doesn’t know why he keeps saying it. Got him choked up last night, rambling about his promises. Because that should be more important. Vincent’s face don’t mean shit when it comes to Ambrose. Hell, he’d probably be capable if the surgery took his arms too. That talent is unstoppable.

Like the silence.

“Don’t make me say it, Vincent. Fucking.. I ain’t here for your damn power trip, alright? You ain’t savin’ shit.”

Nary a fuckin’ glance. From behind, all inky hair and broad shoulders, it’s hard to pick out Vincent’s feelings. That frustrates Bo. Just like with victims, his brothers got a script too. He’s supposed to be in the know, in charge. Vincent can’t keep secrets from him. Secrets get brothers shot inches away from vital organs and arteries.

“Vincent. Vinny. Help your brother out..”

It reminds him of being younger. The highchair. Pleading with Vincent to cut the tape and let him go because Mama and the Doc never listened. His one little eye would shed enough tears Bo could see ‘em across the room. Stuck in place, while Vincent could come and go as he pleased, but still chose distance. And he never did free Bo from the restraints.

“C’mon, now. Gotta get this fuckin’ shit show on the road. Need a hand, Vinny..”

Begging for help out of the pew, it takes ‘em both back there. Bo hopes Trudy is the one stuck now, held down by ugly demons in that coffin of hers, watching her boys get along enough.

Well, Vincent listens anyhow when he’s talked to softly like that. Gets right up and takes Bo by his palms, never his wrists, and heaves him up. Even doesn’t make a comment when Bo’s ankle twists under itself for some godforsaken cranial reason and he stumbles straight into his brother’s shoulder.

Face first in a grimy sweater, he sort of understands what it’s like to be in Vinny’s place. At least in the conjoinment. Bo hates the pictures, of their little bodies all twisted up and stuck. The weight of Vincent is suffocating like that, not comforting like the feeling of warm cashmere. Makes him want to crawl right out of his skin.

Bo scratches at the bands of scar tissue on his arms, never a day in his life since they formed without drawing blood from a raised line of the itchiest goddamn feeling. Only way to describe it is like mosquitos stakin’ their claim on every last blood cell in the area. Poison in his blood, from his highchair days on.

Gotta push away from bein’ stuck in Vincent’s careful proximity. Can’t get comfortable, vulnerable, like a silent, squirming little bastard child.

Bo can’t do this. This switching places thing. If he’s gonna be the weaker twin, Vincent better fuckin’ do his part. One way or another. Provoking him is the easy part.

“Heard you kept the pretty blonde. Took some video to remember her, huh. You got the hots for some wax bitch, Vin?”

Nothing. He physically pushes Vincent, uncoordinated enough to miss his chest and thump into his shoulder instead.

“Look I don’t got much interest in your creepy fuckin’ Quasimodo dungeon, but I gotta know. D’you fuck her? Get up reeeeal close in that wax pussy?”

Bo swallows down more acrid bile. Forces a tight, painful laugh.

“Of course she’s special. Tiny. Blonde. Just your type yeah? Just like your whore mommy-“

There we go. Vincent shoves him back, both of them knowing damn well that’s enough to take Bo down right now. And it does alright. Knocks some ribs pretty good against the back of the pew on his way down, forcing out a painful puff of air.

While he’s down, Vincent takes a second swing with his boot this time, pinning Bo on down to the floor. Pretty sure he cracked his head when he got forced down. Or maybe just put too much strain on the arrow wounds, ‘cause damn is he seein’ little stars and Angels dancin’ in his narrow vision.

If he wanted to win, Vince would press down with that boot and put his twin out of both of their misery, crackin’ ribs into bits and stabbin’ his heart. That’s not his goal though, never had been. It’s to knock some damn sense into Bo that he’s injured and needs to forget about his spastic bullshit.

Pisses him off. Bo fights back by jabbing his fingers in the back of Vincent’s knee, bringing him down to kneeling on pure instinct. Now Bo can reach the straps of his apron, pull himself back up to Vincent’s level in this fight for his spot.

“You think you get to boss me ‘round jus’ ‘cause I’m fucked up.. Well you’re fuckin’ mistaken, boy! I am in charge ‘round here. Not you. Not Lester.”

Vincent just stares. Tears apart Bo’s attitude with just that familiar glare. Fuck him.

“Look at you, fightin’ your sick brother. Think ‘at makes you better’n me?” Bo feels like he’s suffocating, even without the pressure holding him down. He licks across his lips and ignores the taste, “Guess you oughta put a fuckin’ cap in me. ‘Member? I killed the bitch when she got too fucked up. Two for her and one for the Doc.”

Vincent’s eye contact wavers, drifting over towards the plush coffin, like he’s considering it. So Bo doesn’t shut up, doesn’t even know if he can, “Leaves three more in the chamber. Could take us all out. One for baby Les. One for you. One for me. I’d do it if you left me for last. Don’t got nothin’ without-“

His intense staring finally processes in his brain, noticing the off details about Vincent’s face. The mask, the good one, was ruined in the hunt. There was a smaller one that would make do but wasn’t comfortable. Bo examines it, eyes flitting around, confusion in his bunched brows.

“The fuck happened to your face?”

‘You did.’ Vincent thinks, but he doesn’t tell him that. Instead he shrugs, hopes he won’t press the issue. Redirecting ain’t as easy when Bo’s still askin’ more questions.

And Bo is furious now, “We could fuckin’ quit it, you know. Got no right touchin’ your fuckin’ face. Fuck ‘em, Vinny. Can’t believe they’d fuckin’ lay a hand on you, I’ll kill them all!”

He must know they’re already dead in truth, because he goes silent for a while. When he comes back, he’s talking about their other conversation. The one with the pistol that killed Mama and the Doc in their beds, years and years apart.

Dangerously close to being honest, Bo hisses and acts like he’s adjusting his aching shoulder, but really, the pain is nothing compared to what’s going on in his head.

“Can’t do it on my own. One of us dies, we all die. You fuckin’ promise me that?”

Bo seems to think he’s ill. His eyes blur over and it’s not tears, just a pounding in his head. He’s dehydrated from vomiting so much, delirious from the blood loss, but he thinks he knows better. The tumor. Come for him this time. That’s what he convinces himself.

“You’d do it, Vinny, wouldn’t ya, if I couldn’t?” His nose is running from the humidity, the pain, his body forcing a fever to fight for himself. In his mind’s eye, it’s blood pouring from his nose. Just like Daddy after his skull popped.

Fuck. He’s already dead.

“Vincent. Vincent you can’t let go of me!” He clutches that sweater like his life fucking depends on it, glancing at the ground and back up at his brother, over and over, like it might fall away any second.

His brother tilts his head in confusion, but Vincent obliges his ramblings, holding onto Bo around one arm, the other hand balled in his trashed uniform shirt.

“You let go of me ‘n I’m a goner, y’hear? Don’t you fuckin’ let me go. Hell ain’t ready for me. I’m not- My soul got business here and you ain’t fucking gonna turn me into wax, goddamn it. I ain’t the monstrosity here. Fuckin’.. You aren’t either Vincent. That bitch- That fuckin’ demon in Mama’s coffin, don’t let it take me-“

His rambling goes on like that ‘til he passes out again. Under Vincent’s ill-fitting mask, his best one ruined in the hunt, tears are running down the left side of his face. Finding meaning in this fit, knowing full well Bo won’t remember it tomorrow, is idiotic. But he does it anyhow. Lets himself take it to heart that he’s necessary, and loved, and nothing at all like Miss mama Trudy.

He’s right though, Bo doesn’t remember a thing. Vincent carried him home and Bo woke up on the couch, had a plate of eggs like nothin’ happened. Across from him, he nodded to Lester, “You spot a single soul out there, you let us know ‘n we’ll be by. Not too much work today.”

Lester scowls and nods his head, dumbstruck by how much he forgot this time, “Yeh, alright. Got nothin’ better t’ do myself.”

There ain’t gonna be a hunt for a long while, and just as likely he ain’t gonna leave Ambrose. Too many repairs to leave to Bo in this state, all fucked in the head by his disorder. It’s like that sometimes in cycles, but they ain’t seen it get this bad before.

Routine is routine. Bo’s disorder robs him of his sense, his brain defects makin’ him weak. His brother’s fix everythin’ up ‘til his brain gets all better, and he gets bored of doin’ the small stuff. Thinks Ambrose is always the same, nothin’ ever happenin’ to disrupt his perfect plan.

Make Mama proud. Make Bo calm. Same goddamn difference.

Lester looks at Vincent across the table, and he nods, the signal to keep lying to Bo. “Saw a group campin’ in the woods. Two girls, ‘bout four boys. Teenagers, I could get ‘em back and Vinny can take ‘em.”

They’re already dead. The keepers of the group already a part of Ambrose. Dead men walking.

“You sit tight, rest that arm up. Show you the new figures in the mornin’.”

It’s gettin’ too easy to lie through his teeth, but harder to keep Bo inside.

Neither knows what the stiff nod from Bo means, ‘til he says, “Have your fun. Jus’ be fuckin’ careful. You fuck up my town, I’ll fuck up somethin’ of yours.”

‘Uh-huh, we know, asshole.’ Lester thinks, tension in his jaw pushing it forward. There’s all kinds of words just dancin’ on his tongue, but he swallows them back, if only ‘cause Vince puts his hand on his shoulder.

Instead, he manages to choke out a simple, “Yessir.”