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charliexclayton · 1 day ago

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don't let the storm slow us down (it'll slow us down) - self para

location: the ranch mentions: @solidgrovnd + @saintlcss

Idle hands are the devil’s playthings. Most days now are collages of things Charlie does to keep her hands from idling. She wakes, she works, she sleeps and keeps the careful thread of survival spinning against a dull knife, wondering if it will ever cut. It’s tedious work but the radio station is liveable again, not that Charlie stays there at night. Not without Roux. Roux who’s all been but MIA since they shared violence and tenderness at the diner. Normally going days without contact would be cause for concern in Arcadia, but there’s a connection between them now where Charlie feels like she would know if anything was wrong with Roux, like the girl would appear in front of her if she was dead and tell her to cut off a limb.

When things are wrong, they rot. When they rot, they are the poison that turns idle minds into weapons. Charlie just hasn’t left the devil with enough time to make playthings of her hands. She’s either too busy lifting things or too busy drinking (and in very rare cases she combines the two to do something she likes to call: drunk handiwork). If she can fix Arcadia, maybe she can fix the things wrong with her. So, she works on improving their space and ignores the way her hand aches when she forgets to grab things gentler or bangs it against things.

The only thing missing now from the radio station is a proper working door. With the hinges the way they are (and Emmett being the way he is) Charlie isn’t sure when she’ll be able to get the tower station secure enough to sleep at night. Not that she minds. Her body has gotten kind of used to curling up underneath the bar top. These last few days came with a deviation in her ritual, the same work but in a different location. She wakes, she works on the station, she waits until afternoon, and then she makes her way to the ranch. Once there, Charlie begins the process all over again of lifting and keeping hands busy.

The work is quiet. Sometimes Jude joins her. It’s less lonely when she does, though not because either of them are prone to conversation. She supposes it’s because it feels good to fix something with someone else, to rebuild after a storm. Alone or together, the work is often followed by a near wordless invitation for dinner which Charlie always accepts (often it’s her only meal for the day) before she heads back to the bar for the night. Occasionally, she overstays and spends the night on the couch, always sure to leave at first light.

She finds that she’s grown fond of this routine, looks forward to the quiet meals shared together: Them in one room, Shaw in the other, sleeping, healing. She knows Jude doesn’t miss the way she hesitates every time she comes in to eat, but she never pushes Charlie to see Shaw, and so Charlie hasn’t. She still isn’t sure what the situation is between Jude and Shaw, but it’s clear in the way Jude hesitates at Shaw’s doorway that there is something of care there.

Today Charlie had finally undergone the task of chipping away at the frozen red snow and discarding the collected ice chips. It had been taxing, both physically and emotionally, and by the end of it her fingers had been so cold that the ice stopped melting and staining them red when she held it.

Back inside, Charlie washes her hands in the same bathroom she’d hallucinated in weeks earlier and yet, exhausted as she is, there’s a sense of warmth there now. She wipes her hands on the towel and then exits the bathroom. Jude is in the kitchen. She can hear her now chopping something on the cutting board for stew they’re having tonight. The thought makes Charlie stop in her step, the way her body reacts to things like that still takes her by surprise, but she reckons it’s because it’s still so fresh. She hears it then, a soft melodic cry coming from the bedroom that’s more like a pained moan than a cry. Charlie pauses at the cracked door. She still doesn’t know why there’s so much holdback at seeing Shaw. How unfair then, that Shaw would see her at her worst and Charlie can’t even do them this one decency of visiting them when they’re unwell.

She swallows and then pushes the door open. Inside the room, the lights are dim and the air is suffocating. In the thick of it there’s the smell of wounds healing, sour at the back of her throat, and it makes her hesitate. But then Shaw moans again, something that sounds so much like Jude, raw and hurt, that Charlie feels the pull of needing to exit the room. She doesn’t. Jude is making dinner, and for all her idiocy, Charlie understands the value of having some semblance of normalcy in these situations, something to do that makes you feel less like things aren’t too much.

She approaches the side of Shaw’s bed and nearly retches because the smell is stronger here and the injuries are so visible, red, and glaring and so unlike Shaw that Charlie’s breath hitches in her throat. She thinks of her mom then, sat in the kitchen and consumed by flames, skin blistered and boiling. Your father will be home soon, stay. How unfair that disfigured and hurt is the only way to remember people once you’ve seen them like that.

Shaw stirs, shuddering in a pained breath that sends Charlie stumbling forward towards them, reaching out. Her hand pauses, unsure what part she can touch that won’t hurt Shaw. Ignoring the bile in her throat she settles on Shaw’s hand, the uninjured one and grabs on softly, curling her fingers around theirs to gently squeeze. It seems to settle them. They turn to look at her then, cracking eyes open in a way that seems to be as difficult as opening a heavy door.

“Charlie?” It’s hoarse and so quiet that Charlie almost misses it. A sob crawls out of the back of Charlie’s throat and she realizes that at some point after entry she’d started crying.

“Yeah, it’s me,” she replies softly, kneeling next to the bed. Shaw struggles an inhale and their hand tightens into a fist, like even the simplest act of breathing was hurting.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Shaw asks then, barely more audible than a wheeze. It makes Charlie laugh, an ugly violent laugh in the face of the selflessness that Shaw always expresses. No I’m not okay, Charlie wants to say. I need you. Like it would miraculously heal all their injuries if they had Charlie to take care of. But if Shaw was with it, they wouldn’t have even had to ask the question. So, Charlie lies.

“I’m okay,” she promises with a gentle squeeze.

“That’s good.” There’s a sharp inhale then, like lodging knives into their chest, a pained shudder and a moan, and then an exhale where their eyes shut. A pang of panic hits Charlie full force and she wonders if she just watched Shaw die. Except then their breathing evens out; peaceful, asleep. Air leaves her lungs and she bows her head against their joined hands to cry softly. There must be neither heaven nor hell for the cruel and vicious ways life endures in Arcadia. Charlie presses her lips to Shaw’s hand and then pulls back, keeping their hands together as though letting go would end them both.

“You’re fine,” Charlie lies, to herself more than to Shaw, “You’re okay. I’m okay. We’re fine. Fuck.” The sniffle is loud in the air as Charlie works on stopping the tears. “We’re going to be laughing about this, not any time soon but later, you know? Maybe you’ll forgive me for the things I’ve done in your absence, scold me for my impatience.”

Her eyes scan Shaw’s injuries then, and Charlie feels bad that she ever felt bad about chopping off her own pinky. With her injured hand she wipes at her face, ignores the way that doing that still hurts. “You need to get better though; I don’t think this place can work right without you.” I don’t think I can work right without you. A pause in the conversation, the quiet and slow inhale and exhale from Shaw lulls Charlie to quiet her crying.

There’s a noise from the kitchen and a sad smile crosses Charlie’s face. “So… what’s up with Jude?” It’s teasing, light, and yet a painfully honest question. She sobers up. “She really cares about you, you know. Not that she’s said anything, but she’s Jude so that’s how we know, right? That she cares? I didn’t know you liked the strong and quiet type, hell, I bet this is the most words you’ve heard all week.” Shaw moans again, Jude’s name said quietly, hurt. We’re all haunted.

Charlie sits back on her heels and looks at Shaw’s constricted pained face, tears rush out from her eyes before she can stop them. “I’m really sorry,” she mumbles thickly, it sets forward an avalanche of words, “for not visiting sooner, for being such a coward, for hurting myself. And I’m so sorry you’re stuck here, but you can’t leave, okay. You can’t die. Because Jude needs you, okay? And goddamn it, Shaw, I need you. I still have so much to learn from you. So, don’t leave, okay? Don’t leave us here without you. None of us can do this without you.”

Violent, clawing, the back of her hand works overtime to wipe at her own face. She stands up, ignores the aching of her knees, and bends over to press a kiss to Shaw’s wet forehead before joining their foreheads together. “You get better, okay? And I’ll… I’ll work on not being such a coward. I’ll be brave. And I’ll be here, okay?”

She pauses for a second, closes her eyes and takes the moment in, aware that despite her pleas anything could happen to Shaw before she gets the courage to see them again. The thought sends knots to Charlie’s stomach but she pushes through to pull back and squeeze their hand. Shaw seems so peaceful now, that it brings about a bit of hope in Charlie’s stomach.

“I should go and make sure Jude doesn’t chop off her own fingers,” she says before stopping herself. “That’s a joke. It’ll make more sense once you’re better ,though I’m not sure how much you’ll laugh.”

With that she lets go of Shaw’s hand, has one last look, and exits, softly closing the door to an open crack behind her. She works at making herself presentable before entering the kitchen, knows that Jude can probably tell anyway, and is grateful when she doesn’t say anything, gesturing instead for Charlie to set the table. It’s a weird feeling that builds in her chest as she does, like this is right, like she’s indulging in the family she never got to have. Outside it’s still cold, but inside it’s warm, and her hands find ways to keep busy in rebuilding in the aftermath.

#self para.#threads.#please don't leave quite yet.#shaw.#jude.#found family.#tw injuries #i'm biting my fist at this mfing found familyyyyyyyyyyyyy

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