#glass closet etc etc cracked facade etc

[titanebaby]

i am normal about the broken mirror in button house

[unknownjpegs]

session #2

Jack slides into her chair. It’s a new one. Her temporary office at this agency is a bit nicer than the near-closet on the Shadows base. She’s got a bit more budget to spend, so she’d ordered it and had it delivered right to the door. Made some stuffy military eyes bulge to see so many rules broken, but nobody had corrected her. 

It’s a cheap thing, but the fake velvet matches the color of the rug on the ground. Not too difficult to put together, nor too heavy for her to carry inside. She’d made a young soldier do both, anyway. Hadn’t needed to bat her eyes — just walked up to him, pointed at the box, and told him to follow. He had.  

Now, she adjusts in the seat. The screws don't squeak — she'd made sure he had tightened them enough, then sent him on his way.

Smooths down a wrinkle in her periwinkle trousers. Slim-cut, tight to her ankle, make her seem just a bit taller than she truly is. Make her legs look long.

Glasses on, file open.

“Diondre Moore-Lewis. Age forty, birthday February 17th — this, as I’m sure you are aware, is your third quarter routine evaluation.” 

She has not cracked him in all the time that he has worked on the base. He has not cracked her either. Two impenetrable walls — assessing on one side, indifferent on the other. It would do him some good to talk, she knows, about some of his past. It always feels good to do that, once you get scraped over the rough gravel crest of those first words. Even if your knees end up raw and bloody, it feels good. 

“Yep.” Happy says, flicking a ring finger with his thumb. Peers closely at the nail. Anyone else, and Jack would consider that a nervous habit. But he’s truly just more interested in that than this evaluation.

Jack waves the latest stack of scales — depression, anxiety, etc. — in front of them. He has, as usual, filled every neutral bubble in. 

“Would you like to talk about any of this?” 

Happy shrugs. Rubs a hand over the top of his hair, dark brown hand over the tight white curls. They’re growing out a bit, roots showing charmingly. Jack makes note to send him another bottle of that purple toning shampoo, else they’ll yellow.

He fishes a pair of reading glasses from his coat and reaches across to retrieve the papers. Adjusts in his slump on the couch, crosses a leg. Puts his eyebrows up and pulls his mouth into a thin, thoughtful moue. 

Mimicking her.

“Hm.” Hyperbolically thoughtful, then: “Nope.” 

He hands them back, folds his arms. Gets comfortable back against the couch with crossed arms and closed eyes. He’ll nap there, if she lets him. Sometimes does. 

“Would you like to talk about your deceased father?” Tone light. 

One brown eye cracks open briefly. Amused, disappointed: “C’mon.”

Jack shrugs. The careful, professional facade cracks into a slight smile. 

“Always worth a try.” She shuffles the papers neatly back into place and then tucks them into his file folder to set aside. “How’s the turtle?”

“He’s a tortoise.” Happy mumbles. “And he’s doing great.” 

“Eating his greens?” 

Happy doesn’t laugh, but his whole body shakes in a huffing snort. 

“Good.” Jack relaxes now, too. Her shoulders fall just slightly. They don’t do that around many people. Her children. The lieutenant, if she’s feeling soft. And Happy. “Anything you would like to talk about?”

Happy considers this. No exaggeration or dishonesty about the inward pull, now. And then he sits forward. Jack does too, bemused eyebrow up. 

“Yeah, actually. Something has been on my mind for awhile, doc.”

She tilts her head. Go on.

“Can you explain the white-people-IPA situation?” He unclasps both hands, waves them out in curious little circles. “It tastes like…hops sparkling water. I need somebody to talk that through with me, ‘cuz I do not get that shit.”

Jack smiles, and it’s a real one.

*

“Sometimes he is so hard to get a read on,” her daughter sighs a few weeks later, during one of Jack’s visits to the Shadows base. 

They’ve met for lunch. Both of them on either end of the couch. Not nearly as nice as her new office chair so many miles away, but comfortable. Each of them have legs folded beneath. One of their many mother-daughter mirrors.

Jack catches a glob of ketchup from her burger before it lands on periwinkle pressed trousers. Smiles as she tucks that thumb into her mouth.

“No he’s not.”

[liamakorn]

Absolution (Part One)

A/N: Oh, boy howdy, it’s here. And it’s a two-parter!! Yas!! The second part is gonna take a little while to come out, considering my midterms are arriving and I need to prepare. But fear not! Soon, you’ll have all the John seed lovin’ I know you sinners want, trust me ;) But for now, enjoy this angst, and let me know what you think! Also, this deviates from the plot slightly, so...theres that XP 

Part 1 -Part 2 -Part 3

(Edit: AH! I forgot to tag @obscure-fae , sorry hun! Better late than never I suppose 😅)

Pairing: John Seed x OC (Not the Deputy) 

Warnings: Mentions of abuse and neglect, John’s in a cage, he’s a little shit. I think that’s it?? Some truly awful banter. Like, one swear? Also, I think maybe I wrote John just a tad out of character. Hope that’s cool. 

Word Count: 2,839 

Rating: PG-13 

Maggie paced across her darkened room, radio emitting a static shrill that she barely paid any mind to.

The news had just come in.

John Seed had been apprehended.

After all the pain he had caused. The death and destruction he had left in his wake. The people of Fall’s End had finally caught him. It was a bittersweet moment for her. While, yes, it was good that his reign of terror in Holland Valley was over, for now at least...he was in Fall’s End. Just a few buildings away.  

And it was Maggie’s job to watch him.

Now, that’s not to say she was alone in the task. Three people had been chosen by the Deputy to watch over the Herald. These three would take shifts, rotating every 8 hours or so. That in itself would be terrifying, but for Maggie, it was worse. Her shift ran from 10 pm to 5 am. Meaning, she’d be spending all night with a psychopath cult leader who carved people’s sins into their flesh. Exciting, I know.

She was still trying to unravel the knot that had settled in her stomach when she left her quarters, finally working up the courage to make her way across town to the Spread Eagle, a well-known bar in this part of Hope County. She smiled at Mary May, the owner of the establishment, and someone Maggie would consider almost a parental figure. Maggie opened her mouth to speak, before shutting it quickly, staring nervously at the door leading to the basement. Mary May nodded, blonde hair swishing with her head.

“He’s restrained, caged, and beaten to high hell. He can’t hurt ya past empty threats.”

The redhead sighed, biting her lip and hesitantly stepping towards the threshold. Moonlight slipped past the dusty windows, illuminating the glass Mary May held in her hand as she raised it in salute. Chuckling, Maggie took a deep breath and grabbed the doorknob, marching down the steps before she could change her mind. Waiting for her at the base of the stairs was Alice, a girl of barely 17, who looked about ready to keel over any second. Glancing at Maggie for barely a moment, Alice huffed a sigh of relief, dragging herself out of her chair and trudging to the door.

“Thank. God. I swear, I was about ready to die of absolute boredom. This guy never says anythin’, doesn't even try to escape so I can shoot ‘im!”

With another sigh she starts up the stairs, leaving Maggie to her shift.

“Have fun with doing nothin’.”

Well. This should be fun.

The walls were old, cracks littering the stone no matter where you looked. Most were tiny, barely perceivable unless you squinted. Others were practically the length of the room, suggesting it had been built before even Mary May was born. There were crates of varying sizes stacked against the left wall, probably holding alcohol of some sort, as well as smaller boxes of utensils, glasses, etc.  In one corner there were cleaning supplies, next to a door Maggie assumed to be a closet. In another corner, there were cans of food that had been there since god knows when, beside a row of mostly empty wine racks.

But the thing of interest rested against the far wall. A medium sized cage, one meant for that of a wolf or bear, was propped between the refrigerator and a stack of kegs, leaning precariously against the former. It appeared makeshift, as if it had been ripped apart and someone, probably Nick, taped it back together the best they could.

Inside the cage sat a man, hands tied behind his back, face bloodied and bruised, but still recognizable in its features. His shirt was torn, the scarified tattoo of ‘Sloth’ reading clear across his chest, along with several of his other tattoos. His brown hair was tousled haphazardly; the ends just barely managed to hang in front of his eyes. Oh, his eyes. While his face remained mostly clear of any wrinkles and blemishes - save for the contusions and visibly broken nose - his eyes seemed lined in a pain she couldn’t quite place, and, quite honestly, never wished to be acquainted. To her surprise, when Maggie looked into them, he was already staring back, a gleam in the striking blue depths. As if he was in control. As if she was the one locked in a cage.

Like an animal, ready to strike.

She couldn’t help the shiver that ran down her spine, peering at this man who had caused the misery of so many of her friends. She had never seen him face to face, and while, yes, he was definitely intimidating…

She never allowed herself to finish that thought, lifting her gaze to the chair she would be spending the next several hours sitting in. The thought made her skin itch, but she ignored that, squaring her shoulders and taking a seat, purposely not looking in John Seed’s direction. His gaze never faltered, following her movements with a frightening steadiness.The hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention.

This was going to be a long night.

----

It was about half an hour into her shift when Maggie began to fidget. An hour, and she started tapping her boot against the ground. At two hours, she was ready to bust out some jumping jacks, just to have something to do. And still, John hadn’t said a word. She now understood what Alice had meant. The silence was eating her alive.

“I hope you don't mind, I helped myself to your rifle.”

She spat out the words, anything to break the tension; but, even though she intended her tone to be snarky and hardened, her voice was soft and apprehensive, sentence expelled in a single breath. Glancing at the caged man, she was startled to find his gaze already on her, peering through the steel in a way that could only be described as predatory. This time, she didn’t break the connection, staring at him with just as much intensity. Slowly, like a cat, he smirked, tilting his head ever so slightly. While he didn’t verbally reply, Maggie cast her gaze down, playing absentmindedly with the cross dangling daintily from her neck.

“I will get out of here, you know. “

Starting, she almost didn’t realize the words came from him. His voice was rough, gritty from underuse. There still contained a certain charisma to it, though. A lilt that enticed you to listen, to hear more of what he had to say. Maggie got the impression he could talk his way out of pretty much anything if he really wanted to.

She raised her emerald eyes to his, confused by the casual note in his tone. He was very relaxed, she noted, for a prisoner with the hatred of an entire county on his shoulders.

“...no. You won't.”

A snort fell from his lips, as if her statement was preposterous.

“Of course I will. Tell me,”

He rose to his knees, leaning as close to her as his cage would permit.

“When a dragon says, that he is going to eat you... That he is going to swallow you and your entire village whole...what do you do? Do you try to reason with him? Do you brush his threats aside, denying he even has the ability to do so? Or do you run, plead for mercy, worship him in an effort to save your own skin? What do you do?”

Maggie paused, brows furrowing. Was this a trick question? What game was he playing at?

“...um…”

She shrugged slightly, licking her dry lips before answering.

“Offer it a banana instead?”

John faltered, smirk falling for a second. They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, and Maggie almost could’ve believed he hadn’t heard her.

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, he cracked, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest, before evolving into a full-on laugh that filled the room.  Maggie’s gaze darted away quickly. It took everything she had not to smile with him. And yet, it felt...oddly good...to have made the supposed sociopath laugh, to see under the intense facade he’d put up with the others. She tried not to look into it too much.

----

After a week of the same routine, Alice finally convinced Rook to switch her with someone else, claiming she would ‘literally shoot herself in the foot if she had to sit through one more shift with the silent psycho.’

Sighing lightly, Maggie shuffled down the creaky steps, her catnap doing nothing to relieve the exhaustion in her bones. She should’ve never agreed to the night shift.

Tom, Alice’s replacement, was definitely...different...than his predecessor. A burly, gargantuan of a man, he stood at least a foot, if not more, over Maggie’s meager frame. Not that it was hard to do. At 5’2”, it was rare anybody wasn’t taller than her.

Tom greeted her with a curt nod, back pin straight as always. He marched out of the room without so much as a word, brushing past Maggie, who gave him a mock salute. Once he was out of earshot, she scoffed, muttering to herself, “Does he ever relax?”

A light chuckle met her ears, followed by,

“Whoso pulleth out the stick from his ass, is rightwise king born”

A short giggle fell from her lips, trying, failing, to hide the smile on her cheeks. John always did this. Stayed quiet for the majority of the night, only to make quips and jokes that never failed to make her laugh, no matter how hard she tried not to. At first, it was annoying; but Maggie soon found herself enjoying these moments, looking forward to them, even. Which in itself was something that kept her awake, even as fatigue ached in her bones. The fact that maybe she was even beginning to care for John Seed was a thought she couldn’t quite comprehend.

Taking the seat she had become quite accustomed to, Maggie shifted, trying to get comfortable on the creaky wood of the chair. After a few minutes, she gave up, resigning herself to the dull pain in her back.

John hummed, looking at her carefully. She raised her brows, refusing to back down in this weird staring contest. She refused to acknowledge the fluttering in her stomach, instead focusing on the discomfort of her stool. When it seemed like he wouldn’t speak at all, he finally did, voice low and gravely.

“So...Maggie...what’s your story?”

Her forehead crinkled, the question catching her off guard.

“What?”

A wider, more genuine smile took to his lips, shoulders shrugging in nonchalance that was definitely fabricated.

“If I’m going to be locked in here for the rest of my days, I might as well learn the tale of my beautiful prison guard. So. What’s your story?”

Maggie tried to swallow the lump in her throat, unconsciously tugging on the ends of her hair. He was just goading her. She needed to calm down.  But he just called her beautiful.

Clearing her throat, Maggie paused, collecting her thoughts before speaking.

“Well…”

There was no point in lying now, was there? What was he going to do? Laugh at her?

Yeah, probably.

“Well. My name is Maggie Cartwright.”

John rolled his eyes, motioning, as well as he could, for her to go on. Of course. That was obvious. She squirmed in her seat, crossing her arms and examining the concrete beneath her boots.

“I...grew up in Ohio. Small town, nothin’ special there, except for a barbershop and a dusty old train station that hadn’t run in ages. Anything else even resembling civilization was at least an hour drive away, so people tended to just stay in their little corner, rarely interacting. Same went for my family, we...never really left the house. ‘Cept to go to church.”

He nodded, giving no more confirmation that he was listening than that slight inclination of his head. The words began to spill out of her mouth, eyes still fixated on a stain marring the rough stone underfoot.

“I had a brother, but...he left home when I was barely old enough to walk, so...it was always just me and my parents. My dad was a farmer, always out in the fields, or at the market, tryin’ to sell whatever we had to give; sometimes the clothes off our backs. Mama never worked a day in her life, but she took care of the house, made sure there was dinner ready by the time he came home. If it wasn’t...he’d get...angry.”

“Did he hurt you?”

The question jarred her from her daze, a shaky sigh heaving from her chest. Maggie finally looked back to the Herald, blinking a few times as his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

“Not...necessarily. Of course, there was the occasional smack or punch. When Papa would drink a little too much, or had too long of a day. I’d leave something around the house, or forget to do a chore…”

She stared into her lap, fiddling with her necklace.

“But usually they would just...ignore me. Leave me to whatever it was that kept me entertained. Which wasn’t much, considering I was practically the only kid in town, everybody else moved away. So it was just me...alone.”

Maggie blinked back tears, clearing her throat roughly. She wasn’t even sure why she was telling him about this, or why it was affecting her so badly. She thought she’d gotten over all this but…

“It’s alright to cry, you know. To let all those feelings out, all that wrath.”

She snapped her gaze to his, shaking her head slowly.

“I’m not...I’m not angry, John.”

He gave her a tender smile, raising a brow.

“Yes, you are. I can hear it in your voice. You hated how your father treated you. How he treated your mother. You hated your brother, for leaving, for letting it happen, for abandoning you. You hate how they neglected you. How they overlooked you. Disregarded you. You hate them.”

Her denial died in her throat, the expression he wore making her heart flutter.

“You hate them, because you hated being alone.”

Releasing a shaky breath, she turned away, biting her lip to keep the tears from falling. She couldn’t stand him. That he was right.  Because she was angry, and she had hated them. But that fact that he knew that, that she was so easy to read, terrified her. How could she have been so naive as to have basically laid her heart right in the open for him to see? For him to manipulate?

“Maggie.”

She didn’t turn back, only gave a slight inclination of her head. John sighed, and though she couldn’t see his face, she could almost feel him staring at her, with those big blue eyes that haunted her very dreams.

“Maggie, I know it’s hard to admit to your anger. And I know you might be turning that wrath to me, because it’s the easiest solution, but I understand.”

Slowly, she twisted just slightly toward him, barely even breathing as she listened to what she knew, deep down, was him trying to convert her. To get on her good side so she’d confess.

It didn’t stop her from paying attention, hanging onto every word he spoke.

“I understand that pain. Of feeling abandoned, and alone, even in a place where you should feel the most love. I know how you feel, and I promise, you can be saved. I can help you manage that anger, come to terms with the ache that I know sits in your chest like a stone. I can save you.”

A soft sigh escaped her, head resting against the wall.

“The pain...does it ever go away?”

His breathing was light, the only sound in the otherwise silent room, save for her heartbeat pressing against her ears.

“...no. You just learn to make room for it.”

The worst part? She wanted to believe him. She wanted so badly to feel that absolution he preached about, wanted freedom from the constant twinge in her heart. Finally looking at him, Maggie could clearly see that same twinge in his own eyes, the seeming genuine nature of his claims. She knew better. Logically, Maggie could tell he was lying, anything to get him out of that cage, to recruit another faceless mask into his brother’s cult.

But she couldn’t help but feel that pull. That pull toward the dark and twisted, toward all she had been warned against. She knew he was lying, but her heart begged her to listen, to trust that he would absolve her of all she despised in herself.

And that was her truest fear in all of this. That was the one thing she had been dreading since the Deputy had assigned her this task.  He enraptured her in a way that she couldn’t explain...and Maggie was terrified.