#hit him in the head with a rock abigail perhaps it will help

[elisavi]

i have a feeling he would be blasting this song day and night if he was given a chance

[commonwealthoccurences]

Orange Colored Sky (OMTWY Part Two)

Note: Overused passing-out trope, anyone? Apologies. I hope everyone’s enjoying Fallout 4 February so far, any feedback would be appreciated!

TW: Death, blood, and violence. Injured child (burns). Be careful!

Prompt: Orange Colored Sky by Nat “King” Cole

Day: 4

Word Count: 2202

Smoke had filled the air, leaving ash scattered throughout the once pristine halls of the Institute. Amongst the gunfire and shouts of alarm, the crackling flames and the falling debris, Sole could hear the winding glass pathways creaking under the stress of the heat. Sweat was beading on their forehead, creating a thin layer between them and their armor, and their breath was coming in short, borderline choking gasps as smoke filled the air.

Something had gone wrong in the communication with the Railroad and Minutemen, and one of the charges had been set off early before someone could catch the error. Half of the science wing had been turned to dust, a large crater replacing what had once been towering and expansive, a pillar of achievement. Sole had barely dodged the flying glass and metal as they attempted to usher synths out of the area, and X6-88 had vanished into the atrium right before the blast went off.

With a moment's breath to pause and send all of their wishes of safety to X6, they began picking themself up off the cracking ground, looking around to make sure the people they were leading were okay. Charred pieces of the plastic foliage scattered through the air, floating down like smoking bits of confetti. What a celebration, Sole thought to themself sarcastically as they readied their weapon to fire at a charging gen-one synth. Their bullets hit the mark, despite the shaking in their hands, and they thanked the training Deacon had put them through.

They slipped the group of synths through the chaos with little hesitation. Fortunately, they’d had the foresight to steal a worker’s uniform off one of the dead Institute members, so unless someone looked at them closely like the last synth did, they blended right in. For all the others knew, they were an Institute employee fleeing the ruckus with a group of loyal synths. They tugged their helmet lower on their head to hide their face better as they kept running.

Despite the rumbling of the imminent collapse, the maintenance halls behind the inner walls muffled the sound of everything going downhill. Soundproofing, maybe? God knows what the Institute did that for, not that it mattered for long. The back halls were mostly deserted; they knew that at least one of the entrances had caved in, and they were so hard to get to that most had probably already died getting anywhere near them.

They paused by the doorway to the room that housed the teleporter and waved the group in, counting in their head to make sure no one had been left behind. The last synth paused and gripped their upper arms, desperate and wheezing. “Please…”

Sole reached out to hoist them upwards as they began falling to their knees, probably from a lack of oxygen. “What’s wrong?” They asked, tone urgent.

“Abigail. She’s a new synth, nine years old. She has no idea what’s happening. They left her in the atrium, I don’t know where she’s gone!”

Sole heaved out a breath and paused to steady themself, eyes closed momentarily. Even if they were synths, they were family, and they had to do right by them. With a firm nod, they ushered the synth towards the portal and steeled themself to go rushing back into the chaos. Somewhere in the back of their mind they heard X6 screaming at them to get out of there, that they couldn’t do any more if they were dead. Good thing he wasn’t there to stop him. After a moment to embrace the silence, they took off again like hell itself was right behind them. Perhaps it was.

The way back out of the maintenance halls was painfully easy, a deceptive route back into the shitshow that awaited them. Their boots echoed as they pounded against the barely-tainted floors; they left footprints of ash and blood in their wake as they charged through the empty area. With their build up of speed, it was difficult to skid to a stop when they were faced with piles of rubble where the exit should’ve been.

That was the only way out or in. Sole cursed, a loud “Shit!” that echoed off the walls, nearly drowned out by the sounds of gunfire they could hear on the other side of the newly-formed wall. They stepped forward and began examining the situation, prying their fingers under pieces of rock and support beams to see if they could find any leverage. Precious minutes ticked by in the back of their mind as they jammed their fingers in different cracks and crevices with no luck. After a few more seconds than they appreciated were lost, they finally felt something come loose.

Internally throwing as much energy as they could at praying the pieces of wall wouldn’t come tumbling down on them, they pulled as hard as they could, grunting from the strain of the weight. At first, nothing happened. Then everything came crashing down in front of them, leaving a cloud of dust and debris to join the mixture of smoke and ash. A harsh cough burned their lungs, and they leaned over, hands on their knees as they tried to eject the unwelcome particles with hacking gasps.

Their lungs, their throat, their nose, and their muscles all burned from the exertion of the fight; hell, the world was burning, or so it seemed from the flames that had now spread so heavily that it was difficult to see any farther than a few feet in front of them. They wished they’d been more grateful for clean-ish air when they had it and kept moving.

By some miracle the stairs to the higher levels of the structure weren’t completely blocked, just provided an oh-so-needed extra challenge of leaving obstacles in their path. They leapt over chunks of walls and climbed over steel beams that had fallen into the walkway, ducked under large supports, and skidded in pools of blood, shining red under the knocked-loose and now dangling fluorescent lights. 

Despite the fact that they initially believed the smoke couldn’t get any worse, the higher they climbed, the thicker and more persistent it became. As always, the wasteland came through to prove them wrong. Cursing yet again, they reached the landing and pressed their elbow over their nose, struggling to even cough. Their eyes stung and watered.

Down the hall something glinted near the floor, shining like a beacon; it wasn’t blood, for once. Maybe it was who they were looking for, or maybe it was someone else who needed help. With that thought in mind, they hurried down the hall and kneeled down to get a better look. It was an arm, with a watch latched firmly around the person’s wrist. A chunk of the wall had come crumbling down on top of them, pinning them to the ground and likely killing them instantly. Maybe it was selfish and rude, but they were grateful it belonged to an adult, wished them peace, and got to their feet to keep looking.

When they got up and redirected their attention to eye-level they lifted their gun before they even registered what they were doing. Just down the hall was a shadow, outlined by smoke and barely visible amongst the shifting light. Too short to be an enemy; they rushed forward. “Sweetheart! Hey, I’m here-” They were interrupted by a coughing fit at the sting of smoke flooding their lungs yet again. “Here to help!”

The child stumbled towards them, pressing their hands to their face. “Abigail?” They called out again.

“That’s me!” She responded, her voice a shrill, terrified cry, broken by sobs.. “Help! Please!”

Sole scooped Abigail up before the child could draw another choking breath and swivelled on their heels, headed back down the stairs with a harsh gasp of air. The smoke was definitely getting worse; they were working on a ticking clock and the smoke was just reinforcing that for Sole. They made it down the stairs in record time and were rushing across the atrium floor, dodging what tumbled down from the walls and the shattering glass, when something slammed into the back of their head and they went down in an instant, Abigail leaving their grasp with a cry. Shortly after, their vision went black.

There were no words needed for X6-88 to part the crowd; the emotion on his face and the knowledge of those around that he was there for Sole was more than enough. When he reached the cleared area, they were propped up against a part of the building, an oxygen mask pressed against their face by Curie’s small hand. She was smoothing the hair away from their face, as reliable as always when it came to taking care of them when he couldn’t. 

The sting in his knees didn’t register when he fell to kneel in front of them. They were covered in soot and sweat, the only clean space on their forehead being where the helmet had sat. He couldn’t stand to see them in the Institute uniform; something tainted on someone who had saved him. His hands were shaking as he struggled to move forward, or maybe the world was just a little unsteady.

Carefully, as if one wrong move may break them, he forced himself into action. Curie smiled at him gently and moved her arms to support Sole’s back, sitting them up a little further. He moved between them and the cold building and leaned them back against his chest. X6-88 took a deep breath to steady his trembling and reached up to take the mask from Curie’s hands. He held it against their face as still as he could and shifted his head to press a kiss against their temple. “They should be awake soon, I think. Their levels are returning to normal.” Curie spoke softly, not wanting to disturb any peace. 

X6 didn’t look up at her, and instead nodded, his eyes fixated on the rising and falling of Sole’s chest, terrified that if he looked away for a moment it’d stop. Superstition and chance was never his thing until he met Sole. He ran a hand up their arm and hesitated.

Being together while working with the Institute wasn’t exactly something that came easy. Saying “I love you” was never an option. If someone overheard or checked security tapes for some reason and found out, X6 was as good as dead, and Sole’s cover was blown. No, instead, they were clever enough to tap his arm or shoulder when they would jokingly throw an arm around him, pretending as if they were playing along with the way the scientists would joke about how he was so serious, despite the fact that it was something they had programmed into him.

And then the bird began figuring a way out of his cage, lost his stone-cold edge, and Sole began to say I love you in their own little way. Morse code. Pressed into his skin at all angles, tapped against his back in the middle of a combat situation, dotted over his shoulders and spine in the middle of a meeting with scientists. Over and over again, they said it without opening their mouth. He’d never gotten the courage to say it back until that moment, and he was terrified it was too late, shaking and full of regret.

Their breath stuttered for a moment and he held his own despite the burn that lingered from the smoke that had worked its way into his lungs. They shifted, twisting their head to the side as if trying to hide from the light of the sun overhead, and pressed themself further into his chest. He breathed a sigh of relief at a sign of them becoming conscious. Once they paused their movement, he paused, too. Then, tapped against the skin of their arm from where Curie had cut off their sleeve to place a monitor, I love you, pressed into them for the first time by his fingerprints.

Another pause. The world seemed fond of stopping time as of late when it was all too inconvenient. Then, against the middle of his thigh where their hand had fallen limp, I love you. He gasped out another breath and squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the tears that streaked down his face, no doubt leaving a path through the ash. He pressed another kiss against their temple, and then another against their cheek. 

They shifted in his arms and tipped their head back, blinking blearily as they looked up at him. It seemed difficult, the way Sole struggled to lift their arm and brushed an unsteady hand against his cheekbone, gaze filled with wonder, as if he were the only thing they wanted to look at for the rest of their days. 

Somewhere he found the strength to pull them even closer against him, practically cradling them as he rested their head against his shoulder and kissed their cheekbone again. This earned him a dazed smile. “It’s over.” He murmured, lips brushing against their skin as he spoke. “We’re free.” Their smile grew and he choked out a relieved sob. They were free, the sky lit up orange from the fiery remains of their cage.

[lilacmoon83]

A Darker Curse

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 28: Broken

Snow's blood curdling still echoed in his ears, as he held their dying daughter in his arms. Emma's muffled scream, as Whale cauterized her wound, further shattered him and he felt more helpless than he ever had, even on his worst days with Kathryn. He gently rocked her, as Snow cried against him uncontrollably.

"My baby...I can't lose my baby…" she kept repeating, as August knelt on her other side, also crying.

"Come on Em...fight…" he pleaded, but her eyes remained glassy and he saw Whale check for her pulse.

"She's not breathing…" he said gravely, as David laid her flat and Whale began to pump her chest.

"Breath for her!" he called, as David did as instructed.

"Emma...please, I can't lose you now," he cried, as Whale pumped her chest furiously and David breathed for her again. But a wave of rainbow colored light erupted from Emma's very being and washed over the entire town. Recognition flashed in people's eyes, as memories were returned, but it brought no joy.

"What...what was that?" Snow asked.

"The curse...it's broken," August said, as he looked at his sister.

"No...no…" he uttered.

"Emma…" Regina said, as a tear slipped down her cheek.

"Why did you stop!?" David screamed at Whale.

"I'm sorry...she's gone," he said apologetically and Snow let out a cry of anguish, as Regina crashed to her knees beside her, trying to hold her inconsolable sister.

"Emma's the Savior. She can break the curse with true love's kiss...but if she dies, it also breaks. Cora knew she was done, so she killed Emma in her final revenge," August said, in anguish.

"No...no!" David cried, as he cradled his little girl in his arms and cried over her. Snow crawled to him and kissed their daughter's forehead.

"Emma...you have to wake up, baby...you have to," she sobbed, as David put his free arm around her and they cried together with their heads pressed together, until she froze and spotted something over his shoulder.

"David…" she uttered and he turned to see what she was looking at.

"What is that?" she asked, noticing the ominous pink cloud.

"Magic…" Regina gasped, as the cloud barreled toward them and swept over them all, just as Rumple appeared with Lacey, though they realized that she probably wasn't Lacey anymore.

"Was that really magic?" Regina asked desperately.

"Yes...but it's different here, as you are probably discovering. Fortunately, I've already figured it out," Rumple said, as he approached.

"Papa...can you save her!?" Neal asked desperately, as he cradled their son and his tears pained him.

"I hope so...I hope it's not too late," he said, as he held up the cork that had been on the bottle.

"Long ago...I bottled true love from the hairs I collected from you both. That potion has brought magic here and the final drop is on this cork. It may be her only chance...your love created her and it is the only thing that can save her," he said, as he dropped the final drop into Emma's mouth. Rumple then used his returned magic to heal her wound, before stepping back into Belle's arms.

"Did it work?" she asked.

"I don't know," he replied, as moments passed and nothing happened. Hope began to dwindle in Snow and Charming, as they began to quietly cry together again. And just when Whale was about to gently tell them that they needed to call the time of death, Emma took a starved breath of air and opened her eyes. Snow and Charming looked down at her in amazement and began crying over her again, only this time in joy.

"What's going on?" Emma asked in confusion.

"You're okay...that's what matters the most," David replied.

"He's right, sweetheart," Snow cried.

"Hey Mom...you look younger again," Emma mentioned, as David looked up and noticed it too. Snow looked at her hand and noticed those subtle lines of aging were gone and put a hand to her face, instantly noticing that the lines around her eyes that were perhaps one sign that she was older than she looked were gone. Regina grinned at her and nodded.

"It would seem the breaking of the curse has returned the time that was lost to you," Rumple declared. August smiled at her and then felt something in his pocket. His eyes widened, as he pulled out the pen.

"Guess that's not all the curse breaking has returned," he said, as she hugged him tightly. Emma sat up with her father's help and looked around at all the smiling people.

"Uh...what's going on?" she asked.

"The curse is broken," Snow told her with a bright smile.

"And Cora?" she asked.

"Dead," Maleficent said, as she transformed from her dragon form to her human one.

"Well...no one is going to mourn her," Emma said, as she realized that Regina might not feel that way and looked at her.

"Oh...sorry Regina," she said, but the other woman shook her head.

"My mother was evil to her core...there was no redemption for her, especially after she almost took you from us. Trust me...I won't be mourning her either," Regina replied, as Robin sided up to her and she kissed him tenderly. David helped Emma to her feet and he and Snow hugged her tightly.

"Wow...so it's really over," she said, as Neal brought their son to her and she took him in her arms.

"It is...we can finally just be the family we always wanted to be," Snow said, as she saw Marco approach.

"My boy…" he said tearfully and August frowned.

"Geppetto…" August addressed him coldly.

"My boy...look at the man you have become," he said in awe.

"Well...what did you expect? For me to still be that little boy you shoved through a wardrobe all alone?" he retorted.

"But...Princess Snow took care of you for me. I knew she would," he said, as he regarded her with a bow.

"She raised me! And after you lied to her about the wardrobe!" August raged.

"But I am your father!" Marco protested.

"Technically you made me and technically she gave me life, but that's not saying much since she has a history of screwing people over," August said, as he drew attention to the Blue Fairy.

"Excuse me?" she questioned.

"I'm the author...trust me, I know all your dirty little secrets," he replied cryptically.

"But her…" he said, as he turned to Snow.

"She's my Mom and I love her. She, Emma, David, and little David are my real family," he said.

"Pinocchio…" Marco started to say.

"August...my name is August now," he corrected.

"My boy...please, can we just talk? You should come home with me! You belong with me!" Marco insisted.

"No…I'm going home with my mother and I'm not saying we can't talk, but you can't expect everything to just go back to how it was before you put me in that wardrobe. I'm a man now and I'm the man I am, because she raised me. Snow raised me and Emma by herself, because you lied to them and took David's chance to raise his daughter away," he said.

"I was trying to protect you!" Marco insisted.

"You two told me to never lie and then you did exactly that to my mom and David!" August snapped.

"And as a result, David ended up in a really bad situation and my mom struggled to raise two children in a really unforgiving world," he added.

"You have turned him against me," Marco accused Snow, but that set August off even more.

"No! She encouraged me to mend things with you when the time came! But if you attack her...that will never be possible. She is my mother and you will show her respect," he said. Snow was about to speak to him to tell him to give August some time, but they were all interrupted when Frederick came running over.

"Frederick...what is it?" David asked.

"It's Abigail...we had a brief reunion when the curse broke, but then she just shut down and got this haunted look on her face, before she ran off," he said frantically.

"This is about me...we need to find her," David said.

"I can track her if you have something of hers," Red interjected and he gave her a scarf that she had left behind.

"This isn't her fault...I need to convince her of that," David said. Snow nodded.

"And we will," she said, as they joined hands and turned to Emma.

"We'll stay around here in case she comes back," Emma said, as they hugged her.

"Meanwhile...if you can get a handle on your magic, we can repair this mess of a town," Rumple said to Regina, as she felt the magic finally coming to her.

"Looks like I'm getting it," she said.

"I can help too," Maleficent said, while Snow and David followed Red and Frederick.

~*~

Kathryn looked on with confusion, not quite comprehending what her eyes were seeing. There was a literal dragon before her eyes and Cora had just stabbed that bitch, Mary Margaret's daughter. She got some satisfaction out of that since both Mary Margaret and David seemed destroyed now. But just like that, the satisfaction was gone when Cora was killed. By a creature that wasn't supposed to exist and she couldn't believe she was actually seeing, no less. Peculiarly, a wave of rainbow light washed over them all, but it might as well have been a ton of bricks hitting her, because that's what it felt like having her memories returned. She felt a tightness in her chest and she looked up to see Frederick running toward her.

"Abigail…" he uttered.

"Frederick…" she said, as tears began to slip down her cheeks. They looked on though, as Snow and David sobbed over their daughter and heard Whale declare that she was gone.

"No…" Abigail said, as she realized her part on all of this. It hit her and every monstrous thing she had done to David hit her like a freight train. She held her head in her hands and felt like dying for all the pain she had caused them.

"Abigail…" Frederick started to say.

"I...I'm a monster…" she cried.

"No...that wasn't you," he assured.

"It doesn't matter...their daughter is dead and I had a hand in it! I tortured David! The things I did to him…" she uttered, as she started to back away.

"Abigail...this isn't your fault and they know that," Frederick reasoned.

"I can't…" she said, as she ran off, despite his protests and missed Emma's revival.

"This way," Red called, as she led them through the woods. David could feel the ground inclining ever so slightly and started to worry about what that meant.

"She ran off before Emma was healed. She thinks she's responsible for all of this," Frederick lamented.

"We'll find her and make sure she knows that's not true. This is all on Cora," David replied.

"I know, but you'd be well within your right to not want anything to do with her," he said.

"You're right...but we can't let her punish herself for Cora's crimes," Snow reasoned, as David led her up the ridge, until they finally spotted her looking over a ledge at the raging river below.

"Abigail!" Frederick called, as she turned and looked back.

"Stop...don't come any closer!" she called back.

"Abigail…" David said, as he cautiously stepped forward.

"I'm sorry David...I'm so sorry…" she sobbed.

"I know...it's not your fault. It's Cora's," he admonished.

"I...I still did those things to you! I did them!" she cried.

"It was the curse...Cora's curse," he insisted.

"It doesn't matter! I still abused you! I...I raped you…" she said in horror, as she turned toward the ledge.

"No...no...don't!" David pleaded, as she held her head in her hands and sobbed.

"Abigail please...if you end your life, then Cora wins once more. Please...don't let her ruin another family," Snow begged.

"You should want me to jump more than anyone. I tortured the man you love," she muttered.

"But I don't. The only person I'm interested in dying was Cora and she did. She did horrible, unspeakable things to all of us. She controlled you...don't let her keep doing so from beyond the grave," Snow pleaded.

"But your daughter is dead!? Why are you here trying to save me when I had a part in it!?" Abigail demanded to know.

"No...Emma is alive. True love saved her, as it has always saved us. Emma is alive and she's fine now," David promised.

"She's alive?" Abigail asked. Snow nodded with a smile.

"She's alive," the raven haired beauty confirmed with joy.

"But I was so cruel…" she lamented.

"That was Cora's curse. We're both victims of it, but we can move on. I have Snow again and you have Frederick now," David told her, as she looked at her husband.

"How can you even stand to look at me?" she asked. He smiled gently.

"Because I love you and I know the person you truly are. Please Abby...don't let that witch win," he pleaded, as he slowly walked toward her.

"Dr. Hopper can help and we can be happy again. All you have to do is take my hand," he said, as he held it out to her. She shook her head.

"But what I did...I don't deserve to be happy," she refuted.

"Yes you do. Cora is the one that doesn't deserve happiness and she got exactly what she deserved. But the only way we really win is if we find a way to take our lives back and be happy," Snow implored, as the blonde continued to cry.

"Please Abby…" Frederick pleaded. She choked back another sob, but her shaky hand in his and allowed him to pull her into a tight hug. Snow and David sighed in relief and he pulled her into his arms, before pressing a kiss to her head. They nodded to Frederick, as he led her away. Red smiled and followed them, giving her friends a moment alone.

"Is it really over?" she asked. He smiled down at her.

"It is...she's gone, Snow," he replied, as he caught her in his arms and their lips crashed together. He gently spun her around and they were breathless when their lips parted. She pressed her forehead against his and their eyes spoke, for words were never needed to convey the depths of their love. A mere look or gesture between them had always had an intimacy that was awe-inspiring. She smiled up at him, as he finally lowered her feet back to the ground.

"Looks like we're the same age again," she mentioned. He smiled back.

"I'm glad you got those years back. It means we'll have more time together, but you still took my breath away, even older," he promised. She kissed him again, as they spent a few more quiet moments together atop the mountain.

~*~

With no small effort or amount of magic, the town was repaired from the damage caused by Cora's trigger.

"Much better…" Regina said, as she surveyed their completed work.

"So...since the diner is fixed, what are the chances of getting some food?" Emma asked.

"Pancakes!" little David called, making Neal chuckled.

"I have some amazing admiration for your Mom. Keeping you two fed is not going to be easy," he joked, as she nudged him.

"Well, if our new Mayor fixed my fryers, then we should be able to whip something up," Granny agreed.

"Good, because I almost died and that means I need onion rings," Emma replied, as Red returned with Abigail and Frederick.

"Hey...is everything okay?" she asked. Red nodded and surprised her with a hug.

"It's long past time that I got to properly meet my Goddaughter," Red replied. Emma smiled and hugged her back.

"As for Abigail...she's dealing with a lot of guilt right now, but I think Dr. Hopper can help her. It will be a long road though. I know guilt and it can be crippling, especially in her case," she added.

"Come on...let's get you those onion rings," Red said.

"Wait...where are Mom and Dad?" Emma asked.

"They needed a few minutes. They'll be along," she assured.

~*~

Tamara crossed the town line that read "Welcome to Storybrooke," with her mission clear in her mind. Neither Greg nor Tia had completed their mission, which meant that she had to intervene. She looked around curiously, as she arrived on Main Street. It was getting late and it was fairly quiet, which seemed typical for a small town such as this. Honestly, she didn't know why the Home Office was so interested in this town, but she was never one to ask questions. All that mattered was the mission. She pulled up to the Inn and spotted both Greg and Tia talking to another man. She saw Tia walk back to the diner with the man, as Greg went into the Inn. Tamara got out and followed him inside.

~*~

"I can't believe all this...but I guess I should have known the Home Office was a bad thing," Greg said, as Tia finished explaining her story.

"Never would have pegged you as Tinkerbell though," he lightly teased. Tink rolled her eyes.

"Funny...but I'm just glad you're willing to abandon the mission and leave the Home Office," she said.

"Well, to be fair, I don't really even know what the mission is. They never tell me anything and just give orders as we go. I was just so desperate to find out who was responsible for my father's death that I let it cloud my judgement," Greg said sadly.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry for your loss. Cora hurt a lot of people," August replied.

"Yeah...sounds like you know that better than anyone," Greg said.

"She put my Mom and David through hell, but she's finally dead. This is a fresh start for everyone," August replied.

"Except the little problem of the curse being broken now," Tink reminded him.

"You said Pan can't get here and you two have abandoned that cause," August said.

"There's more than just us though," she warned.

"This is Storybrooke though and without an enchanted object, they're not getting in," he said, as he flashed the map that they had confiscated from Detective Bishop.

"Maybe...but we still have to make sure Detective Bishop finds his way out of Storybrooke and preferably without any memory of any of this," Tink said.

"Neal said his father can probably help with the memory part," August replied.

"Well...if he can, then I can probably see that he gets back to Portland," Greg said.

"Then you're leaving?" August asked curiously, as they exited the diner.

"Yeah…I finally have justice for my father and now I don't really know what to do with myself, but I think I need to find out," he replied.

"Let me know when he's ready to go, but for tonight I think I'll turn in," Greg said, as he waved to them and went into the Inn, as Tink and August turned away.

"What about you? You plan on sticking around?" August asked. She smirked.

"I don't know...I haven't decided if this is the right place for me yet," Tink replied.

"But…you're from there like us. I mean...this is where you belong," he argued. She smiled.

"So you want me to stick around?" she teased and he shook his head.

"Okay...you got me. Up for a walk?" he asked. She smiled and took his hand, as he offered it.

"Thought you'd never ask," she replied, as they headed off down the street.

[splat-dragon]

Prompt by @Cybermentalitysublime

Prompt: John's still sorting out his complicated feeling about Dutch after Micah's death when he drunkenly asks Charles how he thinks Arthur died (Charles having been the one who buried him, of course).

Fueled either by liquid courage or just no longer able to contain himself, he blurted out “How do you think Arthur died?”

John hadn’t stopped staring at him, and he knew there was no way he’d be walking away without giving an answer. The thing was, though, he didn’t know. It had taken him a day to get to Beaver Hollow, and Arthur had been long dead by then. He hadn’t been there to see him bleed, or collapse, or breathe his last, only to collect his body with Miss Grimshaw’s and bury it.

Something was eating at John, anyone could see it.

 Even Charles, light-headed with the pain medicine Abigail had forced down his throat, could tell. He wasn’t one to pry, though, so he sat at the campfire with the man, staring into the flames and waiting for him to speak.

 That was the thing about him. People seemed to feel as though they could bare their souls to him; perhaps it was because he didn’t talk much. Or that he just listened, let them talk without feeling the need to give advice in turn unless they asked for it. He’d dare say that half the people in the gang had used him as a sounding board at least once, and even more than that had told the air their problems without realizing that he was there.

 Sadie, Tilly, Mary-Beth, even Arthur, all of them had talked to him, sitting by the fire or leaning against a tree or rock, sprawling by the lake in Clemens Point or, when it came to Arthur, riding with him as they went to help Eagle Flies.

 And Arthur had hurt. He had known that he was sick, how the others had missed it he would never know. His gaunt face, the way his clothes hung off him where once they clung to him as though a second skin, the rattling coughs that sometimes kept him up at night. But having it confirmed (“I didn’t tell you before but, I saw a doctor. It’s pretty bad, and it’s gonna get worse.” ) had burned, knowing that there was nothing he could do, that even if he had been able to get Arthur out, he would have been made to watch him waste away. He had known he was sick, but to know he was dying in front of him had hit him harder than he’d expected.

 John never had, though, so he supposed it was his turn.

Of all the members of the gang, he’d never been able to figure John out.

 Not for lack of trying, though. It was no secret that he and Arthur had butted heads more often than not, but he’d been able to tell they’d grown closer towards the end. He could see John splitting away, and had expected him to be one of the ones who would cut and run when they’d started to, join Trelawney and Uncle and the women when they up and left, but he hadn’t. He’d left with the Wapiti before things had truly gone wrong, before Dutch had left him to die, but John had caught him up on the happenings while they worked on the Hope.

 He still didn’t understand John, not completely, but they’d become, he’d dare to say, friends over the last few months, so he sat, and passed a bottle of rum between himself and John, sipping at it where John gulped it down. His head already felt stuffed with cotton from whatever Abigail had given him, and with Sadie down recuperating, and John already well on his way to drunk, they needed someone sober enough to fire a gun with some sort of accuracy.

If he was to guess, though, he’d say it had to do with Dutch.

 Sadie had told him, before Abigail had shoved the needle in her arm (and Sadie had fought like a cornered wolf, she had not wanted anything to do with a painkiller or sedative but as bullheaded as Sadie was Abigail was even more so), that they’d met Dutch up there on the mountain, walking out of Micah’s cabin. He’d said that he’d been there to kill Micah, too (“Same as you, I suppose,” he’d said according to her, though why he’d been in Micah’s cabin if that was why Charles couldn’t say, and Sadie had also said that Micah’d said that Dutch and he were “teaming up once more,” which made a hell of a lot more sense to him), and though he didn’t know everything he knew that Dutch used to mean a lot to John. That before he’d joined the gang, a long, long time ago, Dutch had been like John’s father, that he’d raised him, had raised Arthur, too, and though in the end Dutch had betrayed him, betrayed all of them, left John to die, gotten Hosea (who’d also raised them, he’d been told, and he could see it a lot easier than he could see Dutch playing father) and Sean and Kieran and Arthur and all the others killed. His mother had been taken when he was young, and his father had fallen to the drink, but he couldn’t imagine how John felt, having your father fall so far and then running into him again years later.

He took another swig of the bottle, some Guarma Rum that John had found in Uncle’s stash and brought out to the campfire, before passing it over to John. The man tilted his head back, gulping down what remained, more of it pouring out the corners of his mouth to soak his shirt than going down his throat.

 And then, fueled either by liquid courage or just no longer able to contain himself, he blurted out “How do you think Arthur died?”

 Charles would have to admit it took him somewhat by surprise, and he turned to look at John, taking a moment to compose himself. Even now, years later, though the pain had dulled, Arthur’s loss was still a wound in his chest—he’d never been one to get close to others, but Arthur was one of the few good men he had known, although he’d have denied it to his dying day, and having his death brought up so abruptly tugged painfully at that wound, made scar-tissue that he’d thought long-healed throb and remind him of its existence.

 “You, you buried him.” John slurred, eyes somehow focused yet glassy all the same, and Charles felt like he was being stared through, as though John was staring at him so fierce he’d be able to see Arthur’s death through him. “You told me so. So… you saw him, after he, after he passed.” and he had, of course he had. A day or so later, when he’d seen the news of ‘the end of the Van Der Linde gang’ in the newspaper, all the way up in South Dakota, not yet having reached Canada, and he was glad for it as he’d never have known if they had. He’d ridden Taima hard to come back, he’d had to see with his own eyes if it were true—some part of him knew that it was, the photo in the article was of Arthur’s wagon burning, but he’d needed to see it with his own two eyes, know who was dead and who had survived.

 He hadn’t been surprised, per say, to see the news. Even Arthur, staunch supporter of Dutch he had been, had admitted that the Gang was just about done. Had even tried to come with him, to leave everything behind to help escort the Wapiti to safety. But he hadn’t expected that it would be the Pinkertons that would end them. He had been certain that it would be Dutch himself, in his ego-driven insanity, that would destroy them. Would put a bullet between their eyes, or get them caught and be the cause of the nooses that snapped taut around their necks.

John hadn’t stopped staring at him, and he knew there was no way he’d be walking away without giving an answer. The thing was, though, he didn’t know. It had taken him a day to get to Beaver Hollow, and Arthur had been long dead by then. He hadn’t been there to see him bleed, or collapse, or breathe his last, only to collect his body with Miss Grimshaw’s and bury it.

 “I’m not sure,”  he finally settled on, and he could see John puff up like an angry kitten, in a way that might have been scary if he wasn’t two sheets to the wind.

 “How do you think, then? I… I need to…” his voice faltered, and he shook his head, looking very confused when he tried to sup from the rum only to find it empty, “I just… want to know.”

 John had told him, once, and only once, looking sad and pitiful and half drunk then, too, about the last time he’d seen Arthur. His brother, gaunt and dying, face void of any color, eyes bloodshot and looking so, so tired. He’d told him to run, that he’d “hold them off”  and to “get the hell out of here and be a goddamn man”  and then, Charles had known, then, that he was only talking because he was drunk, and John wouldn’t look him in the eye for a week after, John had admitted that he’d told him “You’re my brother,” and Arthur had said “I know.”

 And looking at John, now, it didn’t escape him that John looked horribly guilty. Arthur had gone up on that mountain to draw Pinkerton's attention away from him, and never came back down. It wasn't John’s fault, and Arthur had insisted on it, would never have gotten off that mountain either way from the sound of it, (John had told him that Arthur had said so, that he’d apparently thought that “We ain’t both gonna make it,” )

He remembered riding into Beaver Hollow, the smell of smoke still cloying in the air. The corpses of the Pinkertons had been gathered, though he could see where they had lain, the dirt disturbed and dark with their blood, and their blood stained his footprints as he dismounted and walked into the center of the clearing, hand on the grip of his gun just in case.

 It was hard to reconcile this with his camp. The one where he’d sat to the side, relaxing as the others sang along to whatever Javier was playing on the guitar. Keeping an eye on Jack as he ran around, chasing Cain or trying to catch some bug or the other, watching them dance around, tripping over their feet as Dutch hurried to grab Molly after putting on that ridiculous gramophone of his.

 The one where they’d slowly separated, Micah’s group staying off to their side, while ‘Arthur’s’ (though at the time they hadn’t thought of themselves as that) kept to themselves. Sitting awkwardly together when Dutch explained his ‘plan’, Micah standing behind him and grinning. The camp where he’d watched Arthur wither away, where he’d watched them mourn, had mourned in turn, where he’d tried to keep them together before giving up, keeping them fed and little else as he turned his attentions elsewhere.

 The wagons and tents had been left to burn and fall apart, crumpling in on themselves. Tarps, little more than shreds of leather, clung desperately to their frames, shattered, burnt wood standing tall like so many ghastly grave-markers. Glass had crunched beneath his boots as he walked, and he’d looked to see a photograph beneath his boot, picking it up carefully. The glass was coated so thickly with dirt and ash and he hadn’t known what else, and he’d been grateful for his gloves as he wiped it clean, staring at the photograph.

 It was one of Dutch, Hosea and Arthur, when they were all young. Before everything went wrong, when it was just the three of them, before John, before Susan even, and it was strange to look back into their past when he was walking into the corpse of their fall.

 He’d broken the glass, the imprint of his boot clear in the shattering of it. They’d been sat Hosea, Dutch, then Arthur, with Dutch standing between them, and his boot had landed just so, the glass splitting to put a vaguely V-shaped crack that ran between Dutch and the other two, separating Dutch from them. Ice had settled low in his stomach, at the sight, and he’d shoved the picture into his satchel, not sure what he’d do with it later, but not wanting to leave it behind.

 (He’d lost it, some street rat stealing that satchel while he was brawling as the White Wolf in Saint Denis, and had never forgiven himself for it)

 Charles’ eyes had been drawn, somehow, to a particular tent, collapsed in an odd way, he thought it was Pearsons’ but the camp had been scattered, thrown about and it was hard to tell whose from whose, but it was about in the spot where the mess wagon had been. The tarp had been bulging up in an odd way, too long and unnatural to be just an odd way of settling, and for a moment he had hoped thought that, maybe, it had been a horse. One of the smaller ones, the spares kept around camp in case they had to hurry, or bring one of the girls along or one of the horses needed to rest. But the shape wasn’t right, and it was too small for even the smallest of their horses, for even the Count, and so he had hoped thought that, maybe, it had been a fallen Pinkerton, one that had been missed in the mess.

But some part of him had known, even as he approached, reaching out with his gun to carefully move the tarp aside. The body had begun to rot, smelled of it, but was still whole, hadn’t turned colors or fallen apart, yet. He’d known from the moment he’d seen the dress, too elegant for a gang such as theirs, black turned brown with long dried blood, a tired face relaxed in death, graying hair loosed from its pompadour, shotgun not far from her hands.

 He hadn’t expected the grief that had struck him as he’d looked upon the body of Susan Grimshaw; they’d never been close, but he’d never been particularly close with any of the Van der Linde gang, bar a few. But she’d been one of the good ones, as good as any of them had been, cared deeply about all of the gang members even if she’d been harsh in her way of showing it, and he was sorry for her death.

 So when he picked her up, he was careful, as gentle as he could be, cradling her as he carried her over to Taima, settling her gently on her rump. She deserved better than to be slung over his horse like some bounty, but he hadn’t brought a wagon or any other way to carry a corpse, so all he could do was tie her down and hope he’d find somewhere close by to bury her.

 And then, as a passing thought, he’d grabbed her shotgun and tied it to Taima’s saddle as well to bury her with.

Why he’d kept looking, he couldn’t say. Maybe it was because he could see that there had been so many Pinkertons, there was no way that, with how few the gang had been reduced to, they’d only lose one. And the tracks were obvious, leading deeper and deeper into the cave, splattered here in there with familiar amounts of blood that had set dread deep into his stomach, and he’d known where that ladder let out, grabbed Taima and ridden her up to it, found the tracks easily as they switched from boot- to hoof-prints, walking Taima slowly as he followed them.

 It hadn’t taken him to find Arthur’s horse and Old Boy.

 Arthur had loved that horse, and there it had been, splayed out on the grass, half eaten away by scavengers. If it weren’t for that saddle, he might not have recognized it, its fur dulled in death, white bones gleaming where skin and hide had been eaten away. Old Boy had been more recognizable, his brown hide only barely darker, lighter mane splayed out on the grass, side torn into, and he’d wanted to bury them but they were both larger and heavier than Taima, and the ground around there was barely suitable for burying a human, was far too rocky to build a grave for a horse, so he’d been made to leave them behind to be picked clean by scavengers, and he’d thought that, maybe, he could return some day and retrieve their skulls.

 He never had.

The ground had gotten rockier and rockier not long after, an incline that Taima, sure-footed as she was, had begun to struggle with, skidding and stumbling. So he’d left her behind, wrapped her reins around her saddle-horn, trusting her to come when he called, not wanting to tie her down—they were in cougar country, and with a corpse on her back she’d be nothing more than a delicious meal if he did.

 The tracks had been harder to follow as the ground grew rockier and rockier, but he’d been able to follow them in the dust, disturbed as it was by their boots, darkened with small sprays of blood. There came a point where it had split, and it had taken him a time to follow it—he wouldn’t have known if the tracks that kept going hadn’t clearly belonged to one man, and there was no sign of the other falling. Finally, though, he had been able to find the tracks of the other, climbing up a sharp incline, and had followed that—the other’s tracks would be easier to pick up, and the one climbing up was splattered with blood, and something had bid him to follow.

He’d lost the tracks at the edge of a cliff or, at least, what he’d thought was a cliff. It had ended abruptly, where it had looked like the man had knelt for a moment, before up and vanishing. Charles had walked around, quickly finding another pair of tracks, these ones running, and from the looks of it they should have intersected with the others’. And then he’d looked over the cliff, and realized it was more ledge then cliff, and that there was another beneath it.

 So, as carefully as he could, he’d dropped down onto the lower ledge, looking around. The ground had been a mess, dust and dirt thrown up in a clear struggle, covered in splatters of blood—bigger than the ones he’d seen before and, looking up, there was disturbed dirt on the underside of the ledge, too, and blood as well. Something had dragged on the ground, he realized, stepping back and looking down beneath his feet, the ground streaked through, and he followed the path with his eyes, an odd sort of trepidation settling deep in his chest.

He’d missed the body, at first.

 It had been growing late, growing dark, and the body was out on the very ledge of a precipice, so he hadn’t immediately noticed it. But the drag marks led right to it, and then he wondered how he’d missed it. His heart had been in his throat as he approached it, the body little more than a indecipherable blob at first, but as he grew near his heart had stuttered, then dropped into his stomach as he began to see it more in detail—

 that tan jacket, the blue shirt becoming more clear as he grew nearer. that strange blond-brown hair that changed colors with the sun and then, when he was standing beside him

 green-blue eyes, glazed and stony as a river-rock in death, but undeniable.

 “Oh, Arthur,” 

John was still staring at him, and though he had never been one for fidgeting, beneath John’s fierce stare, (drunk as he was, John’s gaze was stabbing through him harsher than any blade), he wished he had something in his hands to occupy them; his harmonica, lost years ago, to polish, or his gun to do the same, the rum bottle to roll between them or something to whittle.

He thought back, to turning Arthur over. He thought that, maybe, Arthur had been leaning over, looking at the rising sun (perhaps it was a romanticized notion, but from the way he’d been positioned it was what came to mind), but in the days that had passed he’d slumped, stiffening with rigor mortis before going limp again, hunched over in a way that could only ever be accidental, in a way that made his own neck and back ache in sympathy; when he’d turned him over, everything in his head had screamed wrongwrongwrong, in that way anyone’s did when dealing with a corpse. A human is wired to want to stay far away, for fear that whatever killed that person is still nearby, that it might kill them, too, whether it be sickness or predator, or merely infection from touching a corpse.

 But this was his friend, and so despite the skin that slipped beneath his fingers, shifting unnaturally, he’d knelt beside him, a deep frown twisting his face. His face had blanched, blood settling at the bottom of his legs, in his rear, from how he’d been sitting, but still his face was grayed, marbled in death, and horribly bruised, both his eyes blackened, lips split and cheekbones visibly broken, caved in, shattered bones protruding, pressing against translucent skin. Brown, dried blood surrounded his mouth, his chin, darkened the collar of his beloved shirt.

Looking at John, the man’s eyes pleading despite his fierce gaze, he hesitated. He didn’t know what had killed Arthur. The man didn’t look like he’d been in pain when he’d died—his face had been smooth, devoid of those lines of stress that had been etched so deep, but that could be contributed to the slippage, too. His face had been… well, it had been destroyed. It had looked like he’d been beaten, pinned down and had his face smashed in, and from the state of the place where he’d found him it wouldn’t surprise him (although it had looked like Arthur had put up a hell of a fight, too) if he had, but the way he’d been slumped against the rock… well, that didn’t make sense either. It hadn’t looked like he’d been thrown down, left to rot, but as though he’d dragged himself there.

 “I’m not sure,” he finally admitted, and though John didn’t move, didn’t say a word, in his eyes he looked as though he’d been struck, the distress there obvious. “He… he was in pretty bad shape. Looked like he’d been in a hell of a fight but,” he searched for his words, “he didn’t look like he was suffering at the end. I think…” and he did, nodding as he turned from John’s gaze to look into the flames, “I think it was the tuberculosis that took him, in the end.”

There was silence, for a long moment, tension that throbbed in the air like a thing alive. Finally, John gave a sigh that said more than a thousand words could, and stood, stumbling away towards the house, bottle of rum still clutched in his hand.

 He’d asked Charles in hopes of settling his mind, of easing something that ate at him every day, that kept him up at night, and found himself with more questions than before.

[porkchop-ao3]

A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 29)

A Family, Weakened

It’s time for some sad, guys. We all know what happens right after Arthur gets well enough to carry on working, right? So, this chapter contains character death, kidnapping, a lot of angst and suffering... Enjoy!

(All chapters tagged with #ATINK and also posted on Ao3, username PorkChop)

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There was an odd transition when Arthur was fully healed. It took him a few weeks to get back up and about, and things were relatively uneventful around camp until that point; I spent most days doing chores with the rest of the women. But as soon as Arthur was ready to go back to working for the gang, a lot of things seemed to happen all at once. All on the same day. It was an awful lot to take in, but I found myself in a camp with a drastically different mood. Things changed, and it started with a job the Grays had told Bill about. He was heading into Rhodes with Micah, Sean and Arthur to meet them at the Parlour House. 

It seemed normal enough to me, I was used to Arthur going off with various members of the gang to do various illegal things, and I hadn't thought twice about it when I waved Arthur off to go and meet them. I'd sneaked him a kiss by the horses and told him I was glad that he was finally well enough to be back in his routine. 

Then, Bill returned, looking solemn, looking uncharacteristically thoughtful, and he'd told us that Sean had been shot and he wouldn't be coming home. Getting much detail out of him had been difficult, but Hosea managed to learn that he'd buried him somewhere quiet, and that it'd been quick. He hadn't suffered. The girls were quiet, none of them entirely sure what to say and although she put on a brave face, I could tell that Karen had been particularly shaken by the news. She'd sat way out on the edge of camp by the water and hadn't said anything to anyone. I couldn't bring myself to speak to her, as she exuded the aura of someone who wanted to be left alone.

Arthur had not yet returned and my chest ached as I was faced with the reality of his lifestyle. Though I felt terrible for it, I could barely think of Sean while Arthur was absent; of course, I didn't know Sean all that well. Arthur, though, meant more to me than I had ever imagined someone could.

It was naive of me to think that we'd hit rock bottom, that the worst had come and the gang could only grow from it, shaped by the loss and carrying on in the memory of a fallen comrade; eager to seek a better life so that his was not in vain. But the horrors did not stop there. Abigail had been marching around camp almost frantically, a frown wearing creases between her brows. When I approached to ask what was wrong I was initially prepared for the same response everyone else had given that day; I'm fine, I just can't stop thinking about Sean… perhaps a few stories about others the gang had lost before I'd joined and the general unrest brought on by a changing world that didn't have room for our kind. 

Instead; "have you seen Jack? I'm sure he's around somewhere, the boy is always wandering off, playing where he shouldn't be," her words were nervous, faux cheeriness failing to hide it. 

"No, I'm afraid I haven't. Have you checked down by the water?" I asked, a frown appearing on my face. 

"Why would you say that?" Her eyes widened just a little and her words came out harsh and scared. 

"No reason other than I know he likes throwing pebbles in the lake, don't worry, Abigail. I'll go and look," I gave a brief touch to her elbow, "have you checked all the tents?"

"Yes, but I'll look again. He's probably messing with me, hiding, or something," she shook her head and huffed out a breath before heading towards John's tent. 

I made my way down towards the lake, scanning the area, calling out Jack's name. A brisk walk up and down the edge of the water along the length of the camp and a bit beyond revealed no signs of the boy. I headed back into camp, stopping by Karen. 

"Hey, Karen–"

"If you're about to ask me how I'm doing, I'm fine! Sick of people thinking I'm some fragile, broken-hearted widow or somethin'," she spat at me, her arms tightly crossed over her chest, hands balled into fists. She was tense all over. 

"I know you're fine, Karen, you're a strong woman and I can see you're just looking for peace. I don't mean to bother you," I assured her, choosing to tell her what she wanted to hear instead of pushing her by begging to differ. 

She acknowledged my words with a grunt. 

"I was wondering if you'd seen Jack?" 

She finally looked up at me at that, her expression softening. "Jack? I haven't, actually, not for a while come to think of it," she told me and I gnawed on my bottom lip. 

"Abigail can't seem to find him."

"Have you checked the lake?" She asked with a morbid expression and I nodded. It brought her some relief, I could tell. 

"I'll help," she said, getting up to look for the boy. 

Checking in with a few other gang members had me getting worried, nobody seemed to remember the last time they saw him; unsurprising considering all thoughts had been with Sean since we heard the news. Abigail returned to me, I could see she was getting more and more concerned as time went on and I couldn't blame her one bit. I was beginning to fear the worst myself. 

"Anything?" She asked me. 

"I haven't seen him, I asked around and they don't remember the last time they saw him. Abigail–"

"What's this I hear about you asking where Jack is?" John appeared beside me, face hardened and his voice harsh. 

"Have you had him this whole goddamn time?" Abigail was quick to admonish him, jumping to conclusions and stepping into his space.

"What? No! I haven't seen him. Are you telling me you've lost our son?" John hissed back. 

"He's our son now? I can't be standing next to him at all hours of the day as well as doing things to contribute to the camp and not have Grimshaw badgering on at me. It'd be nice if you actually thought to acknowledge you have a son before he wanders off on his own somewhere and scares us all to death!"

"Please, this ain't no time for arguing. This ain't nobody's fault," I stepped halfway in between them, glancing back and forth at each angry face. 

"What's going on over here?" Hosea cut in, concern etched into his face as deep as his worry lines. He looked particularly tired lately, between Arthur's injuries and Sean's death, the stress seemed to be getting to him. 

"We don't know where Jack is, Hosea. He– he's gone. My son is gone," Abigail was beginning to border on hysterical and I reached for her, putting an arm gingerly around her shoulder in a bid to provide some kind of comfort. 

"Calm down, Miss Roberts, where did you last see him?" Hosea asked in a level voice. 

"I think I saw him by the horses last, but that was hours ago. This morning!"

"Alright. Try to keep calm, has anyone spoken to Kieran?" He began, and when nobody said they had he went to find him. "He's always by the horses, perhaps he can help."

"Oh my god, I can't believe this is happening. If anything happens to him!" Abigail lamented, it sounded as though she was trying not to cry. 

"Abigail, just take a breath, alright? There's no sense in working yourself up, thinking the worst. We'll find him," I did my best to console her, rubbing the spot between her shoulder blades. John had gone uncharacteristically quiet, watching Abigail with a soft curve to his brows. 

Hosea passed by quickly, Kieran close behind him. They headed towards Dutch's tent and the look on their faces made my stomach churn. I saw them speaking, couldn't hear much but I heard the word Braithwaite come up, and Abigail heard it too. She brushed passed me, out from under my arm and briskly headed towards them. I turned in time to see Arthur returning, Dutch immediately asking if he'd seen anything of Jack. He hadn't. 

I hung back as Abigail demanded to know where Jack was, to hear whatever Hosea had been in the midst of telling Dutch. I made my way over to Arthur, and we shared a worried look as Dutch implored Abigail to relax, promising that they'd find him. 

"Kieran saw a couple of fellers sniffing around, we think they were Braithwaite boys. I can only guess it's them that took him," Hosea filled everyone in. 

"They took him? They took my boy?" Abigail was no calmer despite Dutch's reassurance and my heart shattered for her.

My arm instinctively made its way around Arthur as everything hit me at once. First Sean, now Jack? I looked up at him, it being at the forefront of my mind that to Arthur these people were real family. He must've been feeling a million times worse than I was. 

"Are you alright?" I asked him quietly, and he peeled his eyes away from Dutch to look at me. He looked distant, a little dazed, like things weren't quite sinking in. At my words he came back, his eyes focusing a little more. 

"Oh, yeah," he mumbled monotonously. 

"Arthur, I'm s–" 

"Don't," he shook his head, a pained look in his eye. 

I closed my mouth and nodded. 

"I'll talk to you later," he told me, looking me right in the eyes. I stroked his back until Dutch turned to him. 

"Arthur, come on. We're going to get that boy back," he said, and I let my arm drop as Arthur moved to follow him obediently. "Micah, Kieran, you two keep guard. Shoot anyone who ain't welcome here." 

"Just heard about Jack. You need extra guns, Dutch?" Bill called out, approaching flanked by a number of other men from the gang.

"The more the merrier. And you," he turned to me, making my heart stop momentarily, "you and the rest of the girls, you keep Abigail company. Make sure she stays calm."

I nodded, watching as everyone mounted up, realising it was just about all of the men going to get Jack. The sight of it warmed my heart despite the harsh circumstances, it served as a reminder that these people were all out to look after one another. They were family, through and through. 

Once they'd disappeared into the treeline, I turned to Abigail who had her arms wrapped around herself, trembling, eyes glued to the ground. I closed the gap between us and put my arm around her shoulders, guiding her over to the campfire where the rest of the girls stood watching, all looking equally saddened. 

"You see that, Abigail? All of them fellers are going out after him, Jack is going to be alright," I said to her, sitting her down by the fire. 

"She's right. Nobody'll be able to hurt him with the whole Van Der Linde gang around to protect him," Mary-Beth agreed, kneeling on the ground by her feet. Karen, Tilly, Sadie and Susan all took a seat nearby too. 

"Keep your chin up, darlin'. That boy can't have gone far. The Braithwaites might be stupid but they ain't evil, I'll bet they have no intention of harming him," Susan said, reaching over to pat her knee. 

"Uhh, Mi- Miss Abigail? I'm… I'm sorry. I told Dutch about them boys hanging around, I never thought that this…" Kieran was on his way to stand guard but paused to offer a few tentative yet apologetic words. Abigail shook her head bitterly and he quickly scampered off, guilt oozing from every pore. 

Most people looked as if they didn't know what to say. Karen and Sadie just watched with an expression somewhere between dread and sympathy. Tilly was sat with her head buried in her hands. Molly stood the furthest away, looking concerned while not daring to come over and say anything. I was struggling too, I'd tried my best at comforting Abigail but I knew there was very little I could say to a mother who was missing her child. The best we could all do was stay with her and provide our support. Even Pearson, one of the few men who hadn't joined the others, came over to offer a few kind words and ask if Abigail wanted anything to eat or drink.

The hours the men were gone were torture, so cripplingly nerve-wracking and long-winded. I felt sick the entire time, so I couldn't bare to think how Abigail might be feeling. Jack was such a kind, quiet, sweet boy. I was sure no harm would come to him in the end, it would take a special kind of evil that I didn't believe the Braithwaites were capable of to harm an innocent child, but I still couldn't shift my anxiety over the situation. 

By the time they finally arrived back, it was late. Molly had gone to bed, Tilly and Karen were trying their damnedest to stay awake, Mary-Beth had failed and had fallen asleep curled up against the side of Abigail's chair. She was clutching a daisy chain in her hand, I remembered it from the night Jack and I had made it together; it was a little browned and shrivelled now, but I found it sweet that she'd kept it. Abigail herself, of course, was wide awake, and Sadie and I were too. I was tired but I was restless where I sat under the cover of the shelter by the fire, I'd taken to drawing to try and distract myself and pass the time. I drew Jack, or at least tried to without a reference, but I'd scribbled out the last two attempts so it wasn't going well. 

I discarded my sketchbook when the men arrived, though, immediately jumping up to my feet with the rest of the people by the fire. Mary-Beth sat up with a start, murmuring something incoherent before she woke properly too, and joined us all where we started crowding around the hitching posts. 

"Where is he? Where's Jack?" Abigail called out, eyes desperately trying to search for signs of him on someone's horse. 

"We think we know where he is, but it'll require a trip to Saint Denis," Dutch explained, sliding off his horse. "Don't you worry, Abigail, we'll get him back."

"So you keep sayin', but you're still standing there!" She cried, a weak sob following her words. 

"We've no reason to believe he's in immediate danger. Right now we need a moment to get our heads straight. None of us have slept, going all the way over to Saint Denis in the middle of the night, all guns blazing, is not going to achieve anything," Hosea tried to reason with her. "And you need sleep too, my dear, you'll run yourself ragged, staying up and worrying."

"You expect me to sleep, the way I'm feeling?"

"I expect you to try. Abigail, he is safe. We will get him back, safe, as soon as we figure out how to go about it."

"He's right, Abigail, you need rest," I tried, reaching for her. She shook my hand from her arm and stormed off with a loud sigh. I let her go, staring sadly after her.

"What happened with those awful Braithwaites?" Mary-Beth questioned. 

"We delivered what was coming to 'em," Hosea told us. 

"Burnt down their whole goddamn mansion, killed most of 'em," John elaborated bluntly, strutting past everyone towards his tent.

"Ain't a lick more than they deserve, the sick scum," Karen hissed, spitting onto the ground in distaste before walking away. The crowd gradually dispersed as Dutch and Hosea encouraged everyone to go to sleep, and I searched for Arthur. He was by his horse, giving him an affectionate rub on the neck. 

I gingerly made my way over to him, trying to make my footsteps audible so I wouldn't startle him. He glanced over his shoulder at me, stared for a moment, then without bothering to check if anyone was watching, he took my hand and led me over to his tent. He'd opted to keep the extra canvas up since his recovery, growing used to the privacy it provided. Letting it close behind us, he didn't bother lighting a lamp or anything, he just sat down on his bed and pulled me down to lay with him. It was a tight squeeze for sure, his bed being big enough to realistically fit one person, but we managed if we wrapped our arms around each other and pressed in tight.

We fidgeted a lot to get comfortable, and I must've asked about five times if I was hurting his shoulder, but he insisted he was fine. I didn't know whether to speak, I hadn't completely worked out what sort of mood he was in. I just held him, let him hold me, enjoyed the chance to be so close to him and surrounded in his warmth and safety. I figured I would say one thing, and let him make his mind up about where he wanted to take it. 

"I'm here for you," I whispered, "it's been a difficult time lately."

The camp was quiet, I couldn't hear a peep out of anyone for the longest time, it was so uncharacteristic. Usually there was something going on, Javier with his guitar, Uncle singing a song I didn't recognise, Pearson telling a story about his time in the Navy, Sean loudly laughing about something or another… My heart gave a sickly squeeze and I pressed my face into Arthur's shoulder, breathing in the smell of smoke and sweat that was much stronger than usual but brought me comfort. I thought he might've fallen asleep, but at my movement, he spoke. 

"Feels like it's getting harder and harder to just exist, people like us," he said very quietly. "Though I guess it's no one's fault but our own, we've been poking the bear an awful lot lately."

"Things are changing fast," I mused.

"Both of 'em knew we was playing them. The Grays luring us into that shootout, the Braithwaites taking Jack away. That poor kid, he ain't asked for any of this."

"You'll get him back."

"I know. But even so, he's just coming back into a life where we're constantly running. People around him dying, the only family he knows. That's no childhood."

I agreed with him, but I wasn't going to say it and sink his mood any more. 

"Sometimes I think about–" he stopped midway through his sentence, silencing himself abruptly. I waited for a moment, but it didn't seem like he was going to carry on. 

"About what?" I prompted, smoothing my hand over his back. He remained quiet for a few moments more and when he finally spoke again, it was in an almost inaudible whisper.

"About just getting out of here," he admitted, shocking me into more silence. "I couldn't… these folk mean too much to me but sometimes, I can't help thinkin' that all this is doomed, and we should all just quit while we're ahead."

"I can't pretend I don't see your point," I responded, blinking into the darkness against his plaid shirt. "Things feel so different since I first joined you folk."

"Jus' think; John and Abigail could raise Jack proper, make a life for themselves. Charles, he's a good man, he could do good things with his life. Maybe start a family of his own. The girls, they could have lives much safer than this one, have proper homes. I don't know about the rest of 'em, lot'a these folk would probably keep on living on the wrong side of the law, but for some…" he sighed sadly, squeezing me tighter and turning his head to press his lips against the side of my head.

"You think about this often?"

"Not till recently."

"And what would you do?" I asked, and he took a long while to respond. 

"Me? I'd… I don't know. This is all I've ever known. I'd probably try and live somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, somewhere far out from these more civilised lands where no one'd come looking. Though, I spent so long moving around so much, I don't know if I'd be able to keep still."

"Now that's a feeling I can relate to."

"So… maybe I'd go travelling, making money however I could as I went. Honestly, I mean. I'd just live on the move, never staying too long. Never letting civilisation catch up to me. Price on my head is way too high to ever be forgotten about, I don't think I'd be able to live a peaceful life in one place."

"It's that bad?" I murmured. I knew Arthur was wanted, I knew he had bounties, but I did not know to what extent.

"Yes. Real bad," he sighed, "but it's all well-earned, I assure you."

"So if you got out, you'd just have to live on the run anyway?"

"Probably. But maybe… if I travelled far enough, I might just be able to convince myself I was merely a wanderer," he gave a quiet chuckle, and we remained silent for some time. 

I spoke after a while, the question gnawing at my mind. "Would you spend the rest of your wandering days alone?"

"Well, that depends on what sort'a life you'd wanna carve out for yourself," he told me softly, bringing a hand to the back of my head and stroking through my locks.

"I wouldn't wanna do anything that meant never seeing you again," I replied. 

"So I guess… would you wanna join me? If you could stand spending the rest of your life running for my sake."

"Well, I've spent a long time moving around. I get restless being in one spot, running wouldn't be an issue for me, if you'd have me," I shifted, pulling back so our faces were close, even though I could barely see him. 

"I'd always have you, princess," he whispered. 

I pushed forwards to kiss him, adjusting as necessary when my lips met his chin in the pitch black of the tent. He kissed me back with a hot intensity that somehow remained tender, fingers tightening in my hair enough to tilt my head and make me melt into him, completely losing myself in the kiss. 

He broke the kiss when we were breathless, and my heart was pounding.

"Arthur I think– no, there ain’t no think about it, I know. I'm falling in love with you. Real hard," I whispered breathily, my fingers tightening in his shirt, my body pressing into his. In response to my words, Arthur made a soft humming sound, tilting his head under my chin and pressing his lips there. He kissed me a few times where he knew I wasn't ticklish before murmuring against my skin. 

"Don't matter what's happening, what's going through my head, the moment I kiss you everything goes away and all I feel is like I'm the luckiest man alive. I don't ever want to lose that. I'm falling for you as well, so fast I can barely keep up with it," he told me, his voice vibrating against my neck. 

My eyes closed and I let out a breath, my body humming away with a unique pleasure I'd never felt. 

"You're the most beautiful person I've ever known," he added, and I made a light, involuntary sound.

Arthur's hand wandered down my side, resting on my hip and squeezing there. I subconsciously lifted my leg and hooked it over his, bringing us closer still. I was struck with the urge to make love to him stronger than I'd ever felt before, intensifying at his pleased, hushed moan.

"I wish we were someplace else, I jus' want you so bad," I breathed. 

"Don't tell me that, I will ride us out somewhere private right now just so we could–"

"Sleep, you need sleep," I blurted out, "God, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."

"You ain't saying anything I ain't already thinking," he chuckled half-heartedly. I kissed him once more, something much tamer.

"Should I go?"

"No, stay here. Unless you couldn't sleep like this?" 

"I'm sure I could," I giggled. His arms tightened. 

"Then settle in, sweetheart. Sleep tight," he whispered. I dipped my head under his chin and snuggled down for the night. 

"Goodnight, Arthur."

[outlawnurse]

He Insists - Chapter III

A RDR2 Modern AU Written by: @ninja-nurse, Inspired by: @heart-of-gold-outlaw and with Special Thanks to: @ceruleanchillin and @teumessianfox

Warning: Language, Spoilers

Introduction | Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III | Chapter IV | Chapter V

"If those girls are going to be with us," Dutch said to the men, "they're going to need to learn to defend themselves." "What are you suggesting?"  Arthur asked. "I want you and John to take them to the gunsmith in Valentine.  Get them both a pistol and some ammunition, and teach them how to shoot." John smiled. Arthur hit his arm, as he stood next to the man, "You should bring Jack too." He nodded. "They're going to need horses too."  Arthur said, "I know where I can get a couple good horses and tack real cheap." "They'll have to learn to ride." "I think they already do.  I know Caitlin does."   John nodded. Dutch nodded, "They're a part of this family now, albeit we don't know for how long, but they're John's blood.  We need to take care of them."

Sophia crossed her arms, "I don't want to go." "Sophia," John tried to reason with her, "you need to protect yourself out here." "I'll pass."  She looked at the man, seeing the hurt on his face, "Thank you for the offer though." He sighed. "I'm sorry.  This was never my... thing.  I don't like guns.  I don't like riding horses.  I don't appreciate that our family line is a bunch of criminal misfits.  No offence." "Little taken."  He furrowed his brow, looking at her. "I'm sorry, John."  She looked at him sincerely, "You're my great great grandfather, and for that I love you.  Without you...  I wouldn't be here, but...  I don't want to live this life.  I just want to go home." "I get that, but...  You're here.  You can't change that.  I'm just trying to keep you two alive, so you can go back in one piece." She sighed, feeling badly, "Fine." He smiled, "Good."

*That Night*

"I'm proud of you, John Marston."  The woman said, putting her hand on the man's shoulder, as he sat alone at the fire. He looked up at her, "Yeah?  For what?" "I've seen quite a change in you since our girls got here."  Abigail said, "You've been very attentive to them.  You've really been a father to Jack, which... is all I've ever wanted from you, John." He sighed, holding the beer bottle in his hands, "I'm sorry I left, Abigail." She looked at him. "I'm not going to make excuses, and I don't want to talk about that time, but...  I need you to know that I'm sorry, and I'm here.  I'm here for this gang.  I'm here for you.  I'm here for Jack." She smiled. "What?" "You're an idiot, John Marston."  She hugged him, kissing him. He smiled, kissing her back.

*The Next Morning*

"Where's Arthur?"  Caitlin asked. Sadie looked at her, "I don't know.  He left a while ago." She nodded. "What is it about him?" "What?" "I mean, you're clearly in love with him." "I'm not."  She scoffed. "Then why are you trying so hard to save him?" "I'm not."  She became defensive. "You put an awful big production into stopping him from going on that job for Strauss a while back for someone who isn't trying to save the man she loves." "I'm not having this conversation with you." "Fine."  She said, "I just want you to think about this." Caitlin looked at her. Sadie stood close to her, almost whispering, "You get your sad, angry little cowboy.  You make him fall in love with you.  You go home."  The woman raised her eyebrows, putting her arms out, "What happens then?" Caitlin's eyes filled with tears. "That man has had enough loss in his life.  He doesn't need..." "Did Sophia put you up to this?"  She interrupted the woman, not wanting to hear anything else she had to say. "No."  She said, "I'm just looking out for a friend." "I'm not doing this with you, Sadie."  She shook her head, walking away from her. Sadie watched her walk away, shaking her head.

Sophia dropped a pile of clothes next to Caitlin, "I'll wash.  You can hang." Caitlin nodded. "Are you ok?" "I'm fine."  Caitlin sighed.  She was quiet for a few minutes, "Do you think anyone is looking for us?"   Sophia nodded, "I would imagine they would be." "Maybe this is just all a dream, and we're going to wake up in the morning at home, in our beds." Sophia shook her head, "A nightmare is what it is." "It's not so bad." "I have a job, Cait!"  She gasped, suddenly, "If I still have a job.  I have... a family.  I have... a life!" "...and I don't?"  Caitlin raised her voice, bringing attention to them, "Who do you think has been running that ranch you've been living at... rent free I may add?  Who do you think has been taking care of those animals, and keeping everything in repair, and paying the electric, and every goddamn thing else.  The place is over a hundred years old.  It sure as hell doesn't care for itself." "I just think you're a little too comfortable here." "Comfortable?"  She laughed, "How comfortable is it that I was almost sprayed by a skunk this morning because I had to squat behind a bush to pee.  I'm fucking starving.  I haven't had a decent nights sleep since we got here.  How comfortable is it that I know what's going to happen to every one of these fucking people, and there's not a goddamn thing I can do about it." "You had no problem saving your wannabe boyfriend from death's door.  Why don't you just save them all, Cait?  It's what you want, isn't it?" "You know what,"  Caitlin growled, "Fuck you, Sophia!" "Girls, Grimshaw is coming."  Karen got involved, "You might want to settle." Sophia reached her hand back, slapping the girl. Cait gasped, blood trickling from her split lip, "I didn't bring us here!  You have no reason to be mad at me!" "What are you two going on about?"  Sean got between them, "That's enough." "I just want to go home."  Sophia stormed off. Caitlin's face burned red, as she realized everyone was looking at them. "You alright?" "Why the hell is everyone against me today?"  She yelled at the Irishman, "I didn't fucking do anything.  I didn't cause this!  I didn't bring us here!  Everyone wants to tell me the ramifications of my actions, but what about how I feel?  I'm the one that has to live knowing what's going to happen!" Sean looked at the woman, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, "Here." Caitlin snatched it from him, wiping her mouth, "Thank you." "Keep it."  He gestured. Caitlin looked away from him, "You're a good guy, Sean.  Don't let anyone give you shit for anything... ever!  Not even Arthur Morgan.  He cares more about you than you will know." He looked at her, as she turned back to her work. Karen shook her head, pushing him away, gently, "Let her be."

"What the hell is going on over here?"  Susan looked at the woman, "Where is your sister?" Cait didn't answer. "Why are you bleeding?" Cait turned away from her. Susan grabbed her wrist, "Look at me when I'm talking to you." Cait looked at her angrily, pulling her arm back. "I know that look."  Susan pointed at her, "John doesn't scare me when he does it and neither do you.  Why don't you go take a walk and cool off a bit?" "I have work to do." "Go take a walk."  She shook her head, taking the piece of clothing out of the woman's hand. Caitlin took a breath, walking off.

Caitlin looked at the ground, kicking the same rock, as she walked down the path.  She had no idea how far she'd strayed from camp when she finally looked up.  She looked around, not recognizing her surroundings, "Crap." She quickly lowered her head, as she saw two men riding toward her on horse back, turning around to walk back.

"Excuse me, ma'am."  They stopped. She looked at them briefly. "My name is Agent Andrew Milton.  I'm a member of the Pinkerton Detective Agency.  Perhaps you've heard of us?"  He said, "This is my partner, Agent Edgar Ross." Her eyes shifted between the two men, nodding slowly.   "I'm just wondering," he pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket, unfolding it, as he handed it to her, "have you seen this man?" Her face remained untelling.  She looked at the wanted poster, there was a poorly rendered drawing of Arthur, with his name, and a large reward sum, "I can't say that I have." "We've been looking for him for quite some time now." "Five thousand dollars is a lot of money.  What did he do?" "He's a very bad man, ma'am."  The man said. She raised her eyebrows, handing him the paper back, "I'm sorry I can't help you." "What did you say your name was again?"  The agent asked. "I didn't."  She said, growing nervous. "Care to share?" "Not particularly." "Why are you so nervous?" "A lady... by herself... approached by two men.  You'd be a little wary yourself, Agent." "I suppose."  He didn't trust her, "We're agents of the law, Ma'am.  We aren't here to hurt you." She started to walk again, "Good luck with your hunt, gentleman.  If I see this Arthur Morgan, I will be sure you tell him you're looking for him." "Ma'am, we're not done here." "I think we are." "Your acting a bit suspicious."  Agent Milton glared at her, dismounting his horse. She stood tall, putting her hand on the gun on her hip.  She was thanking her stars that John had taught her to use it, "Well, you're making me very uncomfortable.  Don't come any closer!" The man stepped closer to her, only to find himself staring down the woman's pistol. "That's a big mistake."  Agent Ross dismounted his horse, quickly. "Get away from me."  She screamed, as she was suddenly grabbed from behind and disarmed. "It's illegal to draw on a federal agent." She sighed, "Please, I just want to go home." "You should have thought about that before you pointed that gun in my face."  Agent Milton sneered.

Arthur cleared his throat, "Have you seen your sister?" "Not you too."  She rolled her eyes, walking away, "Did John send you to talk to me?" "No," he was confused, "why would he...  Did I miss something?" "We got into a stupid argument, and I may or may not have hit her.  She lost her temper, so Grimshaw sent her to walk it off." "Ah," he nodded, looking down, smirking, "the old Marston temper transcending generations." She sighed, rolling her eyes, "Whatever, Arthur.  You're not funny." "Aww, don't be like that, darlin'."  He chuckled. She sighed, "The point of me telling you that is that she went for a walk and she still isn't back." He looked at her, suddenly serious, "What do you mean she still isn't back?" "I mean, no one knows where she is." "Dutch!"  Arthur walked away from the woman. "Good talk."  Sophia shook her head, as the man rushed off.

Dutch listened to the man, "Now, just relax, son." "I am relaxed, Dutch, but that girl is out there...  She has no idea where she is.  She has no idea..." "She'll be fine, Arthur."  Dutch said, "Miss Grimshaw already told me what happened between the girls.  I'm sure she's just camped out somewhere, laying low, licking her wounds." "She's not like us, Dutch.  She doesn't understand...  She's not from here." "What is your interest in this girl?" "I don't have interest in the girl.  She's Marston's blood.  She saved my life... apparently...  She deserves for us to look out for her while she's here." Dutch grinned, "That's... all." "That's all." "So...  You didn't kiss her by the fire last night, when you both thought everyone was sleeping." "Ahhhh."  The man growled, waving him off. "Good for you, Arthur."  The man laughed, "Why don't you take John and Sean and see if you can..."

"Dutch!"  The two men rode quickly back into camp, "We've got a problem." "What is it, Charles?"  He asked, walking toward the men, with Arthur just behind him. "Caitlin's been arrested." Everyone within earshot looked toward the men. "We were passing through Valentine on the way back to camp," Lenny explained, "and we heard some folk talkin' in the saloon about some woman that got arrested this afternoon for trying to shoot a Pinkerton agent." Sophia's eyes grew wide, "What the fu..."  She looked at John, "All of the things she could have inherited from you, and it was your goddamn temper!" "Morgan!"  John rushed toward the man. Arthur nodded, putting his hat on, as they made their way to their horses, "Let's go." "Where are you going?"  Hosea looked at them. "I'm going to get my," John hesitated, not knowing what to call her, "girl...back." "Now, boys," Hosea called out, "you can't go running into town playing hero." Arthur turned to the man, "She tried to kill a Pinkerton.  She'll hang for that." "Calm down."  Dutch said, "We need a plan, and I think I have just the thing." The two men looked at him, as Sophia worried for her sister. "That sheriff's office is going to be crawling with agents.  If the two of you storm in there guns blazing, you're as good as caught yourself."  Dutch said, "We need to send someone in who will remain cool, calm, and collected, and not bring attention to themselves.  Someone who they wouldn't be suspicious of." Hosea smiled.

Caitlin sat in the cell, her eyes red and swollen from crying all night. "Here's your food."  Agent Milton slid the plate under the door. She didn't move. "Eat.  Don't eat."  The man laughed, "It don't matter none to me.  I'm not the one gonna hang in the morning." She glared at him, angry, "You'll get yours, Milton, don't you worry." The man laughed, "Ok, sweetheart."

"Gentleman," the door opened, "how are we this fine morning?" "What can I do for you, Sir?" "I'm afraid I have to report a missing person."  The man smiled, holding a bottle of liquor, "My daughter... she's gone missing." "Missing you say?"  The sheriff looked at him. "Yes.  She went for a walk yesterday afternoon and never returned.  She's about this tall."  The man held his hand in the air, "Brown hair, grey eyes...  She's ... special." "Special?" "Her mama, bless her heart, dropped her as a baby, and she's just not... right, if you know what I'm saying." The man nodded, "Pinkertons found this one wandering in The Heartlands yesterday.  She threatened one of them with a gun." "Oh!"  The man gasped, "Elizabeth!  Elizabeth, my dear girl!  What have you done?" She looked up at the man.  She gasped, standing up, going to the cell door. "Sheriff, please.  This has all been a big misunderstanding.  I'm sure the girl was terrified.  She's never been out by herself.  Please..." "She didn't seem so inept to us."  The agent spoke up. "She's got quite a temper."  Hosea smiled, looking at the woman, "It runs in the family, I suppose." Caitlin made a face at him. The men looked at the woman. Agent Milton looked at the man, "It's illegal to threaten a federal agent, Mr..." "Jones."  He nodded, "Matthew Jones." "The penalty for assaulting a federal agent is death, Mr. Jones. "I mean," Hosea handed him the bottle, "was anyone actually hurt?  Did she even fire off a shot?" Agent Milton looked at the men, then at the woman. "Please?" The man snatched the bottle from his hands, groaning, "Fine, but keep a close eye on her!  I don't want to see her again!" "Of course!"  

Hosea held the girl's arm, tightly, as they walked down the road, to the waiting horses, "Just keep quiet.  Arthur and John are waiting just outside of town to get you home." "They're looking for him." "What?" "When they stopped me.  They're looking for Arthur.  He's got a five thousand dollar bounty on his head."  She said. He nodded, "Don't we all, Caitie.  Don't we all."

"There she is."  Arthur grinned, leaning on the horn of his saddle, while holding the reins of the girl's horse. "What were you thinking?"  John dismounted quickly, hugging her, "You could have been killed!" "I wasn't."  She shook her head, "I'm sorry.  I panicked." "You can't go wandering out here alone.  You have no idea where you are.  It's not like in your days.  It's not safe." She lowered her head. "Promise me you won't do that again!"  He held her shoulders. "You sound like my father."  She scolded him. "Well," he threw his hands up, "I'm your... grandfather." "Great great grandfather!"  Arthur correctly him, amused. "Shut it, Morgan."  He snapped, "What does that make you?" "Nothing."  He laughed, "She ain’t no relation to me." Caitlin shook her head, "You two..." "Did you really shoot at him?"  Arthur asked. "No."  She made a face, "I'm not that stupid.  I just drew on him." "Of course."  Arthur sat up, raising an eyebrow, "What was I thinking?" "Can we just go home?"  She asked, coldly, feeling suddenly tired. He handed her the reins to her horse. John helped her up.

"Where'd you go earlier?"  Caitlin asked. "I took little Jack fishing." John looked at the man. "Son of a bitch!"   Arthur looked at the woman, "If I'd known you liked fishin' so much I'd've asked you along.  I’ll bring you along next time." She sighed, "I don't.  I mean, I do.  I enjoy fishing, but...  That's not why I'm mad." They looked at her. "Those Pinkerton were coming for you, Arthur." He looked at her, squinting his eyes. "They were coming to offer you a deal."  She explained, "You ran into them when you were fishing with Jack.  I guess I intercepted them." "What deal?" She didn't answer. "Did I take in it your little future world?" "No."  She said. "What's the harm in tellin' us then?" "You have a five thousand dollar bounty on your head, Arthur.  He was going to offer you and everyone else in this little family freedom." "...for what?"  John asked. "Dutch."  She answered. The two men were silent for a long time. "Five thousand dollars for me?"  Arthur sound almost amused. She nodded, "Five thousand dollars is a lot of money even in my time, Mr. Morgan."  She looked at him, grinning, "I was tempted to turn you in myself." "You would never, Miss Marston."  He glared at her. "I'll split it with you?" "Deal."  He pointed to her. John looked at the two, furrowing his brow, hoping he wasn't seeing what he thought he was.

To Be Continued.........

[robinhoodrevisited]

Castle Chaos (pt.7)

Nottingham Castle. The Great Hall. (The doors of the Great Hall burst open as Prince John strides into the room. Flanked by several Black Elite, the Prince halts as he notices the room's occupants.) Prince John: (To Clarke:) "Well, I see you've been having your own celebrations in my absence. A family reunion no less. (Nods to Abby:) Abigail. (Abby stares daggers at the Prince but says nothing. Turning his attention to Marcus:) Kane." Marcus: "It's been a long time, Lackland." (The mention of his disparaging nickname infuriates the Prince.) Prince John: (To the gang beside them:) "What are you waiting for? Arrest these intruders immediately! (The Prince is infuriated even more when the gang do not move.) You would defy your King?!" Allan: (Stepping forward:) "No, (Removes his helmet:) but we'd defy you." (The Prince watches as Will and Much remove their helmets also.) Prince John: (To the Black Elite behind him:) "Don't just stand there you fools, kill them!" (Abby grabs Clarke's hand and pulls her out of harms way as Marcus, Allan, Much and Will draw their swords.) Sheriff's Chamber. Exterior. (Isabella, having finally made it back to the castle heads directly for her chamber. As she rounds a corner, her path is blocked by a lone guard.) Isabella: "Oh, thank God. Guard this door with your life, let nobody in, understand? (As she attempts to reach for the door:) Get out of the way you imbecile! (The guard stands firm. Finally looking the guard in the eye:) Listen you- (Isabella stops talking as she looks finds herself looking into the eyes of her brother.) No, it can't be - you were dead!" Gisborne: (Growling:) "I got better." (Isabella screams as Gisborne reaches for her.)

Elsewhere in the castle. (Blamire runs through the castle, his sword drawn. Stopping to catch his breath, Blamire turns down a darkly lit corridor and into an equally dark room. The Captain senses a presence in the room and smiles. Taking several deep breaths to steady himself, Blamire begins speaking into the darkness.) Blamire: "When my brother and I were young we lost our parents. A warlord and his gang ripped through our village killing livestock, men, women, everything in their path. For the longest time it was just Henry and I, left to survive alone in the world. (As Blamire speaks he begins searching the room.) So I know what it's like to have just one person you rely on. To have that one person you care for above all others. (Blamire stoops down and checks under a table but finds nothing. Continuing:) I dare say my brother and I would've died if Vaisey had not found us. Had not taken us under his wing, shown us how the world really works. Taught about how it’s the warriors that rule the world and not the peacemakers. Vaisey's message stuck with me more so than my brother. Whereas Henry would prove his worth through servitude I would go on to become a leader of men. One of the fiercest warriors you'll ever meet. (Blamire kicks open the door to an antechamber, finding nobody inside.) If I do say so myself. (Shakes his head:) Two brothers, two different paths.  (Calling out louder in question:) I assume he's dead now? Killed by you or your people no doubt. No matter. Henry's chosen path turned him soft. It's only on the battlefield that a man can truly know his worth. Something Lincoln found out the hard way. (At the mention of Lincoln's name, Octavia finally pokes her head out of her hiding place.) His love for you is what caused his downfall. His quest to provide a life of peace for you is what made him weak. (Octavia steps out and stands in front of Blamire:) He forgot what it is to be a man." Octavia: "Lincoln was a thousand times the man you could ever hope to be." Blamire: (Ignores this:) "He begged me for his life. He pleaded with me to be allowed one last chance to see you again. Did he make it?" Octavia: "He died protecting complete strangers from your army. Lincoln was the bravest man I knew." Blamire: (Nods:) "Brave, perhaps. Stupid, most definitely. You on the other hand, just look what his death has turned you into. You're filled with rage and bloodlust, just like I was. I can train you into something the world will fear." Octavia: "I fight for Lincoln's memory. Once you're dead my fighting days are over." Blamire: (Nods:) "Such wasted potential. (Raises his sword:) So be it." (Blamire roars and charges Octavia who draws Indra's sword and emits her own blood-curdling yell as the two warriors engage in battle.)

Nottingham Castle. Interior corridor. (The Nightwatchman runs through the wide corridor, the Sheriff hot on her heels.) Sheriff: "Enough of this, Marian. While I'll admit it's been fun chasing down and killing all your friends, it's time to stop. (The Nightwatchman stops and turns to face the Sheriff.) You've had a terrible shock, your true love has died and you're lashing out, I get that. (Drawing his sword:) Now, take off your mask. Seeing as I missed Robin's, I think it only right that I see your face as you die." Marian: (Removing her mask:) "There's just one problem with that, Sheriff." Sheriff: (Grinning:) "Really, and what's that?" Robin: (Appearing from behind a pillar:) "Sorry to disappoint you, Vaisey. (The Sheriff winces and closes his eyes. As the Sheriff turns to face him:) As you can see, I'm not actually dead." Sheriff: (Grimaces:) "Indeed." Robin: "Marian, if you'll excuse us?" (Marian nods, her expression neutral. Though she knows this is how things must be, Marian can't help but worry about Robin's condition after his near death experience. Nevertheless, Marian turns, opens the door behind her and leaves both men to their fate.)

The Great Hall. (Despite putting up a brave fight, Marcus and the three outlaws have been subdued by the Prince's remaining Elite guards.) Prince John: "So this was your grand plan was it? Disguise yourselves as my guard and take me hostage? Pathetic. (Pointing at Clarke:) You and your meddlesome mother shall be taken to the Tower of London. Locked away where no one can free you so that I can be free to rule England how I see fit!" (As the Prince throws his arms up in the air in celebration, a familiar battle cry is heard. Sailing down from the balcony, dual swords in hand, is Lexa. Slicing into two of the Elite guards as she descends and killing two more as she lands, the Commander turns and smiles at Clarke.) Clarke: "Lexa?!" (Turning back towards the Elite guards, her swords extended in front of her, Lexa quickly cuts down four more assailants. The two remaining guards charge her but soon meet the same grisly fate. Upon plunging her sword into the abdomen of the last guard, Lexa surveys the room ready for anything. While the Commander's attention is on Clarke, the Prince attempts to flee the Hall. Just as his hand reaches the door, Abby slaps it away. The annoyance on the Prince's face is quickly replaced by shock as Abby reels back and punches John squarely in the nose.)

(The Prince is rocked by the blow and stumbles over one of his slain guards. Prince John takes in this latest development and points accusingly at Lexa.) Prince John: "You are a liar and a snake! (To the room at large:) She'll betray you all, just like she betrayed me, you mark my words!" (As Lexa twirls her swords menacingly the Prince reaches down and grabs a discarded sword from the floor. The Commander smiles, baring her teeth at the thought of eliminating the Prince. She and Prince John both raise their swords. As the Prince strikes first and Lexa blocks, they circle each other. Lexa advances and spins, swinging her sword low at the Prince’s legs. The Prince jumps but only just. As he lands, Lexa expertly disarms him leaving the Prince completely defenseless. Yet before she can finish him, Clarke calls out to her again.) Clarke: “Lexa, stop!” (As all eyes turn to Clarke, the Prince seizes his opportunity and runs. Tripping and slipping over the bloody floor on his way out. The Commander sheathes her swords and rushes to Clarke who has her hand outstretched. Clarke gently caresses Lexa’s face, almost in disbelief that she’s really there. Finally, they embrace with everyone looking on, still stunned by what’s just happened.)

Interior corridor. Robin: “Give it up, Vaisey. You’re out of options.” Sheriff: “On the contrary dear boy. I have precisely one card left to play.” Robin: (Looking around:) “Yeah? And what’s that?” Sheriff: (Spreading his arms wide:) “This of course. How I always knew it would end. You and me. Might vs Right, the light against the darkness. The final battle between good and evil.” (Vaisey draws his sword.) Robin: (Smiling, walking over to a torch and hanging his bow on the sconce:) “You want to fight me to the death, no tricks?” Sheriff: “No tricks. Just you and me and my…(the Sheriff pulls a dagger from behind his back and hurls it. Robin deftly catches it, looks to Vaisey and throws the blade away.) En garde!” Robin: ‘Thanks for the warning.“ (The Sheriff lashes out at Robin, and they begin a ferocious sword fight. They work their way from one corridor into another. The Sheriff kicks Robin, and Robin drops to a knee. Robin blocks an overhead strike and pushes Vaisey away from him. Robin swings his sword at the Sheriff; the Sheriff retreats. The Sheriff ducks behind a pillar and the sword hits it. The Sheriff stabs at Robin; Robin ducks aside. The Sheriff swings and Robin ducks. The Sheriff holds it overhead and Robin grabs his arm, then elbows him in the head. A punch to the face disarms Vaisey and sends him down. Robin grits his teeth stands over him, holding the point of his sword down.) Robin: “Now where were we? Oh yes, this is for all the lives you’ve ruined…for all the people you’ve killed.” (Robin changes his grip on his sword and holds it over the Sheriff. Robin hesitates as he looks down at the pathetic, beaten man beneath him. Slowly he withdraws his sword.) Robin: ”No. Killing you now would be too easy, too quick for a man like you.“ (Robin turns and walks back towards his bow. The Sheriff, getting his feet underneath him, slides along the floor and pushes himself up using a pillar.) Sheriff: (Warily, smiling:) "You’re not going to kill me?” Robin: (Grabbing his bow:) “Not without a trial and certainly not by depriving the people of Nottingham of the sight of your humiliation.” Sheriff: “Ah. (Raising his eyebrows then smiles:) You know, I do believe you’re right, Hood. It would be a crime for me not to receive a trial, to escape true justice.” Robin: “I’m glad we agree, now come on.” Sheriff: “Yes, a man of my greatness deserves a trial to be seen by as many people as possible. Perhaps I can convince Prince John curtail my execution into a simple banishment, hm? I hear Kingsbridge is looking for a new Sheriff. What do you think, Hood? (Robin glares at Vaisey, already beginning to regret his decision.) You know what’s surprising, Robin? The fact that after everything, after all the lives I’ve taken, all the pain I’ve caused, you have not even maimed me. (Smirks and walks towards Robin.) Surely I deserve at least that, hm? (Robin frowns, remembering when these words were first spoken in a conversation that feels so long ago.) Remember those three arrows, Robin? The three arrows you could not bring yourself to sink deep into my skull? (The sheriff chuckles:) Oh such good times, Hood! And the question still remains the same.” Robin: “And what’s that?” Sheriff: “That even after I killed King Richard, perhaps you secretly know that I’m right?” (At the mention of Richard’s name, Robin’s thoughts clear. He reaches over his shoulder and draws out an arrow, nocking it as he speaks.) Robin: “There was a moment just now where I actually felt sorry for you, Vaisey. Thank you for reminding me just how vile… (Robin draws the arrow back and releases it, quickly pulling another from his quiver.)… loathsome… (A second arrow hits its mark.)…and evil you are.” (Drawing a third arrow and letting it fly. The Sheriff stands stock still, eyes wide in astonishment. Vaisey looks down at the three arrows now protruding from his chest. The Sheriff looks up again at Robin, his mouth moving as if to say something, then falls heavily onto his back. Picking up his sword and re-sheathing it, Robin walks slowly towards the Sheriff. Grabbing a torch from the wall he leans down and brings the light close to Vaisey’s face. Upon checking for any signs of life he finds none. Breathing a sigh of relief, Robin collapses into a seated position beside the dead man.)

The Great Hall. (Having driven off most of the Prince's forces, everyone is gathered in the Great Hall. Clarke, Abby and Lexa stand talking on the raised platform while Marian and Djaq stand with Allan, Will & Much. The villagers stand with Lexa's warriors conversing about a battle well fought. All eyes turn slowly towards the doors as Octavia, covered in blood, walks into the Hall. When she reaches Indra, she stops and draws the sword from her scabbard, presenting it to her mentor. Indra takes it and places it back in her own.) Indra: "Lincoln would be so proud of you." (Octavia nods once then collapses into Indra's arms. Marcus rushes over to aid the exhausted woman, Djaq following in his wake.) Castle Dungeons. (Running for his life and panicking, the Prince finds himself in the dungeons. Realising his error far too late, his exit is blocked by a tall dark figure. Backing away from the man, Prince John turns and attempts to run the other way only to find his path blocked once more. Slowly, as each man walks into the torchlight, we see Prince John's fears realised.) Prince John: "I was told you were dead, both of you!" Robin: (Smirks:) "Don't believe everything you hear." (Caught between a rock and a hard place, the Prince finally throws his hands up in frustration.) Prince John: "But this is my wedding day!" Gisborne: (Raising his sword higher:) "Congratulations, brother." (The Prince's eyes widen at this realisation as Robin laughs.)

[garrison-generations-blog]

          The stars were blurs. Everything was a blur. The moon, the stars, the trees, the rocks. Everything. Everything was a blur as she ran into the wilderness. She knew this path, she knew it well, like how a river knows its riverbed. Frost nipped, bit, at her nose and cheeks. Her nose was raw, snot threatening to spill. Her cheeks had a confused feeling- To feel cold from the air, or to feel hot from the tears that poured from her eyes. Her breath was a ghostly white as it hit the night air.

          Everything was a blur from the running and from the tears. Her feet took her to where she needed to go. Yes. There.

          Her boots crunching against the snow as she stopped, lungs aflame as her shoulders heaved in heavy breaths. She stomped over to a spot. Her spot. She roughly wiped away the frost and snow on the log and flopped down with a heaving sigh, burying her face into her hands. She was alone. Her shoulders quickened as she seemed to tighten up, curling up a bit.

          Then, like a spring breaking under pressure, she wailed out in sorrow, no longer holding back. There was no one around; Save for the moon and the stars. She wept and sobbed, she cursed. She cursed the world. The sky, the stars. As minutes ticked by, she grew quiet… Then she cursed herself. She wanted to yank her hair out, stomp, yell, anything. But she couldn’t… No, no this wasn’t the moon’s fault, The star’s, not even God’s… No, they’re just doing their job, none of this could be helped. So why didn’t that answer fill the pit in their stomach, the knot in her mind, the break of her heart.

          ‘I can’t just sit here feeling sorry for myself.’ Her inner voice cut through the fog of her mind. That’s what she said to herself, so why was it so hard to think clearly, to just stop feeling so…Sad.

          Her head rose from her hands, and looked at the place around her. The moonlight made the snow glisten and twinkle. The wind softly howled, causing loose snow to flutter upon the breeze, looking like dancing diamonds. The trees swayed softly, like the breath of someone in slumber. Their breathing helped Jem calm her own. Come to her senses. Now that she had come to her senses, she realized how rude she must’ve been..

          Her mind flashed back to an hour earlier. The steam of the train hissed, people rushed out in swarms as the train skid to a stop. Everything was a blur then too. She didn’t remember how she got back to town. She just remembers running into town, promptly running out. Their faces. They were blurs too. A hand on her arm tried to stop her, but the words of the lady who ran the tavern, her blonde hair that was tightly wound in curls and her eyes glittering with worry. Her words were so distant. Jem pushed her off, shook her head and just ran off. Why was everything just a blur. It sickened Jem to her stomach.

          She got to her feet. This place; Her thinking place. So many things happened here. There- That there log. She walked over, running her fingers along the bark. Feeling every bump, nook. Her fingers grazed the outline of it. Her heart quivered and sank as another memory came rushing back.

          Their laughs filled the quietness, causing mists of their words to float into the evening air. Her head fell to his shoulder with a giggle. It hurt too much to remember what those words were. She felt to safe in his arms. Oh how they talked. They talked and talked about such wonderful things. Such wonderful things that now Jem saw as such sweet nothings, sweet nothings that her heart yearned to forget yet kept ahold of. The log had a memorial of their short lived sweetheart relationship.

          That relationship was torn apart, broken like her heart had. He had wondering eyes, eyes that had settled on Jem’s sister. One of her sisters, anyway. If there was one thing she loved above all else; it was family. Their happiness came before her own. She never dared to let her emotions show. She pretended to turn a blind eye; to the looks, the flirting. She grinned and bared it. She grinned and bared it through the wedding, preaching her congratulations for the couple. Yes. Congratulations indeed.             That wedding. Held in the childhood home she had wandered away from all those years before, to find a life of her own. It was good to be back, but she couldn’t shake that… That feeling. Betrayl, no, that wasn’t it. She let her sister take him. What was this feeling she couldn’t get rid of. It sunk in the back of her mind like a stone in a lake.

          That night, after the wedding she stormed up the steps to her family home and slept in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Slept, ha. No. She didn’t sleep. She lay in her bed and stared at the ceiling in the dark. She blamed not having the lullaby of the winds of the Klondike to lull her to sleep, but she knew she was just lying to herself. The jealousy she felt when her sisters lips collided with his… No, she can’t sleep, next thing she knew her feet were on the floorboards and she was heading downstairs and she was sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands.

          Her voice. She looked up, Abigail. Her eldest sister. Oh yes, Abigail, the one Jem had looked up to all her childhood, the woman who helped shape Jem. She strode across the kitchen and sat right next to her. They talked. Abby wrapped her arm around Jem. And Jem cried. She confessed everything, And Abby listened. Abby always listened. She walked Jem back to bed, arm still wrapped around her, and she finally fell asleep, this time in her sister’s embrace.

          Her…Sisters embrace. Hot tears found their ways to Jem’s eyes yet again, falling around her cheeks. Was she shivering from the cold or was she shaking in grief? She fell to her knees, her hands plunging into snow. It stung that kind of sting only cold could give you. She grabbed some and patted it to her face, trying to feel something, anything. Nothing. Her shoulders quivered.

          Oh Abby… Abby, Why. Why did you have to leave the way you did. Jem asked herself this question, over and over. Then asked herself another; Why didn’t I stay there? Why didn’t I make her come with me, Why? Why, Why, Why?! She asked herself over and over as memories flashed like photographs in her mind. Her leaving for months, coming back, the farm, ruins. Up the porch steps, into the abandoned kitchen, the smell of dust and something rotten, up the steps, into the bedrooms, no one there, so quiet. The attic, something pulling, tugging, yanking, dread. Up the latter, the smell of rot stronger, her eyes not used to the darkness she peered into. Then, she saw it, it that could not be unseen. Her sister- No, NO, NO, STOP!

          “ STOP IT! STOP IT, STOP IT!!” Jem howled, fists grabbing her hair, sobs spilling from gritted teeth. Why!? ‘Why didn’t you stop me?’ The question her mind had conjured up to haunt her nightmares, the question that chanted with the choir of swinging rope.

          Suddenly, she felt small. So, So small. Like a mouse staring a lion in the face, the lion of every bad thing that had ever happened, every bad decision, every nightmare, every horrid event that had happened to her. And she cowered.

           How long had it been? She had brought her knees to her chest and cried, her forehead touching the tops of her knees as she bowed her head down. She had been there for what had seemed to be an eternity. Her tears where gone. All gone. She sat and listened to the wind gently howl its song. Song.

           She started out low, a bare whisper. That song. Her voice rose a bit. That lullaby. She rose her head. She couldn’t sing the words, only the melody. This melody was warm. To seemed to chase away the lion, sweeping her into its embrace. Her mother’s embrace when nightmares came knocking on her door. She longed for that embrace. Before she knew it, her voice was singing at the top of her lungs, her arms snaked around herself.

           Her voice carried; It echoed along the mountain tops, the trees, the wind, the moon, the stars. She sang. She sang, and sang, and sang. She cared not who may have heard. Perhaps her song could bring comfort to others. Her voice finally quieted down and took a moment to listen. She opened her eyes that had fluttered shut. She gasped.

          She always watched the lights when she needed hope. When she needed to think. The lights reminded her to keep her chin up. That she wasn’t alone. She has friends, loved ones. Her mining partner, the Scotsman whom she saw as a brother, the woman at the tavern with the glittering eyes, the folk in the sleeping town below, the people back home, and so many people she had yet to meet yet…  

          Above her, colores danced like the snow on the wind. The Aurora Borealis. The Northern Lights. She had seen them before, but this time seemed different. Some say the lights are the spirits of those who had passed on, waltzing across the night sky. She believed this to be true.

          Her song still reverberated on the wind. She could’ve sworn it was her mother’s voice singing. Even her sister’s. The corners of her lips tugged up a bit, gently. Her eyes fluttered shut again. She listened.

          And she could’ve sworn to feel the warmth of an embrace around her.

[shawnjaden-blog]

Thanks in part to agitators who blocked roads

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[elfnerdherder]

Dread and Hunger: Ch. 10

Sorry for the late post to tumblr, but I was kind of caught up in an elopement! You can read chapter 10 on Ao3 Here

Chapter 10: Moscato

           Beverly cornered him at his newest job, Nectar. It was an odd, new age blend of old socialites wanting the latest buzz of wine and aesthetics and young college kids wishing to refine their palates with something not bought off of the Wal-Mart shelf. The hiring manager told Will that there was something vastly appealing about his messy hair and puppy-dog eyes –she had the overwhelming urge to hug him and reassure him of his place in the world. Will was more than relieved when she didn’t.

           “I’m off work,” he said, staring down at her.

           “That means you can drink with me.” She motioned to the bottle of moscato she’d ordered. Will went back to the bar, requested another glass and sat down on the patio outside, eyeing her warily. The air was warm, the breeze was light, and every flower bed held the promise of bright, cheery splashes of aquamarine and lemon yellow. The time of tulips and serial killing. Spring cleaning all of the apparent ass holes in Will’s life right out the door, one noose or disembowelment at a time.

           “I don’t know if I like moscato,” he said, and she poured it anyway.

           “You’re keeping a lot of secrets from me,” she said, sliding the glass to him. He took a sip and made a face at the almost too-sweet taste.

           “I think a rosé would be better.”

           “I was fine with it when it was just that you’d been fired, or you were maybe seeing some kind of person that you weren’t sure whether they’d last long enough to be bothered with introductions, but I do draw the line at life and death situations.” She gave a pointed look to his hand on the glass, and he obediently took another drink.

           “That’s fair.”

           “Are you going to tell me that you forgot?”

           Will had supposed she’d heard every word of theirs out on the lawn, but he’d been hoping he was wrong. Rather, he was hoping she’d pretend she hadn’t.

           “That was rude of me,” he admitted. Fear made him rude.

           “Margo said so, too. Alana said you were just troubled. I said that no one is ‘just troubled’ by a stalker and a body count.”

           “The FBI is looking into it; they want to catch him as much as I want them to catch him.”

           Tone was a funny thing. The words came out right, but the sound was off, his mouth not curving to fit the shape of sincerity. Will heard his own words echoing within his head, and judging by the expression on Beverly’s face, she’d heard it too. She crossed one leg over the other and considered him, squinting in a way he knew as her ‘analyst’ look. During lab, whenever she came across something particularly wonderful, she’d mutter ‘gotcha’ with that same exact look. She had him. What she’d do with him, Will wasn’t quite sure.

           “You’ve always been weird,” she informed him, “so it’s hard to guess what’s Will Graham weird and what’s weird for Will Graham. You’re not okay, though. I know that much.”

           “I’m trying, Beverly,” he said, turning the glass around in his hands.

           “I know. It’s just funny because trying for you and trying for someone else are two different things.”

           “I’m seeing someone,” he informed her, half confession and half distraction.

           “That older guy?”

           “He’s not that old,” Will hedged. “Ten years or so.”

           “I guess the older we get, the less weird that is,” she said thoughtfully. “He was cute,” she offered as an afterthought, the compliment teasing. She shook her head at whatever thought came next, finishing off her drink and pouring another glass rather than share it.

           “He helps me not focus on what’s happening around me. It’s nice.”

           “I bet with age comes experience, too,” Beverly said, wagging her eyebrows at him. Will choked on a laugh and looked out at the people driving by, not wanting to get into that conversation.

           She wasn’t wrong, though. Not in the least.

           “Is it serious?” she asked when he didn’t elaborate.

           “We both like not labeling things.” It was an answer without an answer. Was it serious? He thought of Hannibal’s hands, how quick they were to each part of his body, how worshipful and sensual his kisses. He was giving, and the way he held Will after sex made it seem like they’d been doing this for far longer than they had. While he didn’t exactly notch his bedpost, Will had had enough lovers to feel the difference between a fling and something like Hannibal.

           Hannibal was nothing like a fling. That in itself was a little terrifying.

           “Look, I’m not here to pry, Will. We’ve been friends for years, so I’m somewhat of a professional reader of the Graham-isms that other people may or may not see. But next time someone gets it in their head to start sending you Valentine’s with real, human hearts, tell me. Don’t make me find out through Margo Verger, or god forbid Freddie Lounds.” The last name was given with a withering, pointed stare.

           “Pig hearts are okay, though, right?”

           “A pig heart for a pig,” she said, kicking him under the table. Will laughed, and he was forgiven.

-

Dear Will,

           Nectar is nice. They seem to hold you as one would a wounded dove, with care and adoration at the delicate and fragile beauty in their palms. You took my order with shy eyes and a wavering stance, and for the time that I was there, I saw you as, perhaps, others see you. Gentle. Afraid. The cat you pick up in the pouring rain because the box it was hiding under has collapsed and it’s soaked through to the bone.

           They don’t see the parts of you that are so clear to me they resonate like the finely struck chord on a piano. They don’t see your penchant for dark thoughts and even darker fantasies. They don’t see the fine line you walk like an acrobat. I do. I think of our conversation, heartbeat to heartbeat, nothing more than a door between us. One day, dear Will, you will open that door willingly.

                                                                                                                       Yours,

                                                                                                                       -C.R.

           Nectar didn’t believe in cameras. They didn’t want their guests to feel like they were being watched.

-

           “I’d like to take you to the ballet,” Hannibal said as Will set his glass down.

           “I’ve never been,” Will replied. Nectar was happy to allow him to chat with his customers, and Will was happy to let them think Hannibal Lecter was just a customer. It was a good, even balance.

           “I wondered. Swan Lake is at the theater, and if one is to see a ballet for the first time, that would be one of the ones to see.”

           “Is it a date?” Will asked. Hannibal smiled around the rim of his glass, eyes flicking up to meet his stare. Will knew what he thought about labels. Hannibal knew how much Will liked the lack of labels. He looked down and brushed imaginary lint off of the edge of his black button-up. This time, the slacks and the shirt were his. Nectar couldn’t give a shit as long as they wore all black.

           “It’s next Friday, seven o’clock,” Hannibal said, setting the glass down. He turned and adjusted it so that the sunlight from the window hit the color and made small, refracted teardrops of ruby scatter across the table. Will studied the colors, resisted the urge to reach out and drag his finger along one. Times and days were dates, but he wouldn’t say it, and Hannibal knew he wouldn’t say it.

           “I’ll go.”

           Back at the bar, while exchanging dirty glasses for clean ones, tossing napkins and filling orders, Will brushed shoulders with a girl a few years younger than him. Her brown hair was mousy, pulled back into a messy bun, but her blue eyes were sharp, assessing.

           “You’re Will Graham –the new guy,” she said.

           “Yes.”

           “I’m Abigail Hobbs,” she said, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her stare down at his hands rather than her own.

           “Nice to meet you,” he said.

           “Yeah,” she agreed. “We’re closing together tonight.”

“You’ll have to show me the ropes.”

“Yeah,” she said again, but he could tell that wasn’t what she wanted to say. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, then away quickly where she busied herself with garnishing a few drinks.

It wasn’t until closing, when they were the only two left that she managed to say what was on her mind. Will had been expecting it, tensed for the blow that would probably make him lose this job after only a week of being there. Job number four, meet your end at the hands of a girl that appeared too young to legally drink.

           “The Chesapeake Ripper is killing people for you,” she said, and he paused, chair poised midair to set on the table top.

           “…Yes.” He set it down gently, rocking back on his heels.

           “You didn’t react to my name,” she added when he didn’t say anything else.

           “…I didn’t,” he agreed.

           “Most people do. You see, my dad killed people for me, too.” She flipped a few more chairs over onto their respective tables, avoiding his stare. Will tapped his fingers along the table beside him, watching her smudge move behind the bar. The low, dim light of the lamps behind the bar cast dark, wicked streaks along her face as she finally looked back at him. He couldn’t see her dagger eyes or her wind-chafed skin in the dark.

           “How many?”

           “Too many. He almost got me, too.” She motioned to her neck, to the lovely floral scarf she’d worn all throughout her shift despite the heat of the kitchen in the back or the sun outside. “I don’t like people seeing the scar.”

           “What happened to him?”

           “The FBI shot him when he was sawing into my neck. The Minnesota Shrike. I had to get out of Minnesota after that.”

           “Did they make articles about you, too?”

           “And a few books.”

           They shared a grim stare with one another, the kind of look one can only give to another that knows exactly what it’s like to have that kind of target on their back.

           “This is my fourth job this semester,” Will confessed, and Abigail nodded.

           “Six in one summer, until one of them made the mistake of telling me to my face that serial killers just couldn’t sell clothing in their store.” She smirked, pleased with herself. “I made a lot of money with the hours they had to give me in the settlement.”

           “Did you have to work with that hiring manager?”

           “Part of the deal was that she was fired…I think they called it rash incompetency.”

           “Did he say that he loved you in the end?” Will asked. A much darker question.

           “He said he loved me, he was sorry, and that it was all going to be okay soon.” She smiled a little, counting the till as he grabbed a broom and began sweeping everything out from under the tables. “The guy looked a little like you, the one that finally got him. His name was Will, and we were checked into the same psychiatric ward for a bit. Guess even at my father’s worst, it still messed a guy like him up that he had to be the one to kill him, even if he deserved it.”

           “You moved on, though.”

           “I did. I got my GED, I moved, and I made money off of one of the books because it was pure slander. Easiest libel case they’d ever had in court,” she boasted, but the thought sobered her up in the silence after. “…I guess I’m telling you this because there is a life after. It feels like forever, like there’s no…end. There’s no end and you just keep going because that’s what people do, no matter what. We keep going. But there is an end, and then it’s a new beginning, and I’m doing great.”

           When they finished closing, Will studied her in the red glow of the streetlight they waited under so that they could cross the street. She had a wind-chafed, lightly freckled face, the kind of girl people would have made fun of when they were young for the spots on her skin, the kind of face that grew up pretty and all of the boys regretted it. There was sorrow there, though. The kind of lines around the eyes and nose that don’t go away with time, merely soften. She noticed his scrutiny and smiled like she understood exactly what Will was searching for.

           “Was there ever a time you thought you wouldn’t live to see the end?” he wondered.

           “Every night that I closed my eyes while living in that house,” she replied.

           Will could relate to that part, too.

-

           He woke with a knife to his throat.

           It wasn’t the kind of waking that made him leap to the blade in surprise, and for that he was grateful. It was the sort of waking that was much like the way he’d realized he was even in this sort of mess with a serial killer –slowly, then suddenly all at once. He inhaled shortly, and in the back of his mind he recalled having the lamp on when he’d fallen asleep. It wasn’t on anymore, and the curtains had been drawn. It was just him, the darkness, and the Chesapeake Ripper.

           “Are you going to kill me?” he whispered against the knife. It was cool against his hot skin, a fear sweat breaking out along his temples. The Ripper shifted beside the bed, then he was straddling Will, the kind of stance that spoke of intimacy, both in life and in the taking of it. His eyes, still adjusting to the dark of the room, couldn’t see whether or not the man shook his head or nodded. His panic, starting in his stomach and worming its way everywhere else, wouldn’t let his eyes adjust.

           “If you are…I’d like to see your face first. Please.” Silence. If the Chesapeake Ripper spoke, Will would know him –why else would he be silent? He’d been to Nectar, and no matter how much Will scrambled to try and remember each and every customer, no one ever stood out to him. The only words he’d ever knowingly heard from him had been, ‘don’t move,’ and it was guttural enough he’d not recognized it. A forced voice. A fake voice.

           “I met someone today…someone like me.” The words came, and he swallowed convulsively, the tip of the knife digging in. He shuddered against it, eyes closed tightly. He wet his lips and tried to make his tongue work. “Her father killed girls in her name. I looked it up online after –couldn’t help it. The Minnesota Shrike, who impaled his victims on the antlers in his trophy room in order to gut them properly.

           “She told me that it was going to be okay. She said that he loved her up until the end. She’s in college now, going to classes, working. He died, though. He was killed in the moment that he was going to take her life, the final victim.” He opened his eyes, and in the stillness he could make out faint shapes, outlines. Broad shoulders. Baseball cap. Faceless shadow.

           “It was alright, though, she said. She lived, and there was an end. I didn’t know how to tell her that I didn’t like the ending. Why did he have to die, just so that she could live? Why did he have to end so that she could have a new beginning?”

           The shadow shifted, thighs tightening around Will’s waist. He flinched from it, from the closeness. Their weight dug into his guts, and he tentatively moved his hands, inching them forward until he was able to grasp the Chesapeake Ripper’s knees, gripping them tightly.

           “Why did he have to die just so that she could live?” he whispered again. “Why does everyone think that the happy ending is when the FBI kills you?”

           Silence. Poised above him, the Ripper didn’t brush his hands away, merely held still. Waiting. Waiting for what? Will swallowed convulsively, cleared his throat.

           “I feel…like I’m bleeding into you. That if something happened, I wouldn’t know how to move on, how to have a life where you weren’t somewhere behind me. Can one of us exist without the other? Can one of us live while the other is dead?”

           The knife’s pressure lifted, albeit only a fraction of an inch. Will gave a start when a hand, warm and gloved slid along his jaw to cup his cheek, but when it only caressed his skin, he found himself leaning into it, letting out a quiet huff of breath.

           “Did you kill that man because he not only got me fired again, but because he made me a target in all of the major newspapers?” he asked.

           Very deliberately, the thumb sliding against his cheek tapped once.

           “One tap yes, two taps no?”

           Another tap.

           “Am I to only suffer if you are the one to cause it?”

           One tap.

           “Did you hang him like Judas because you felt he shouldn’t be able to live with himself?”

           First one tap; as an afterthought, two more taps.

           “Yes and no,” Will murmured thoughtfully. He slid his hands along coarse jeans, pausing at the middle of the thighs before sliding back down. “You didn’t kill Freddie Lounds because you love the kind of stuff she writes about you. Even before me.”

           One tap.

           “Jack Crawford wants to put me in a safe house until they catch you. I told him no, and where you haven’t…tried to kill me yet, he can’t. That he knows of…we don’t communicate. I told him you’d burn the city down to find me.”

           One tap.

           “You’d start killing more until I was returned to you.”

           One tap.

           “You’re going to kill me one day.”

           Two taps.

           “You’re going to devour me, though. Until there’s nothing left but the parts of me that ache for you.” Will slid his hands back up the length of his legs, and underneath his touch the muscles clenched.

           One tap.

           “Is that it? You want me to ache for you?” He thought of his poetry, of his prose that made his knees weak. “You want me to feel a stab of hunger at the thought of you and find nourishment at the very sight?”

           A soft sigh, then one tap. Against his stomach, he felt the growing signs of arousal, and he closed his eyes tightly, tensing.

           “You want me to eat your burning heart,” he whispered, and the Ripper’s hand slid from his jaw to his chin, wrenching his head up. His kiss was rough, needing, and Will’s hands tightened on his knees, dragging their way up to his thighs where he gripped furiously, willing bruises from his fingertips to sink deep. It smelled of dirt, of secrecy and a musky undertone, although if that was from a bottle or from the man himself, Will couldn’t say.

           He broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to Will’s, the knife sliding into his skin enough that Will winced and tried to pull away. The Ripper’s breath came sharp, his hips rolling down against Will, and Will trembled, with fear or with want he couldn’t say.

           “Please don’t,” he whispered, and the Ripper stiffened above him. His thumb brushed Will’s bottom lip, as though he could feel just how hard he’d pressed against him, and he brushed his nose against Will’s as he pecked lightly once, twice. It seemed odd, coming from him. Gentle. Apologetic.

           “I don’t think I could do…that…not knowing all of you. Please don’t make me.” He forced the words out, lips brushing against the Ripper’s, and after a half-held breath, the Ripper nodded.

           He sat up, and the knife disappeared. Will exhaled a heavy breath and laid his head back deep into the pillow, relief a balm that spread through his skin to the muscle below. The Chesapeake Ripper placed a hand over Will’s fingers that lightly drummed against his leg, stilling the motion. What had Hannibal called it? Unease? The Ripper seemed to sense it, too.

           “Thank you,” Will said sincerely.

           He wasn’t quite sure how long they lay like that, Ripper poised over him, holding his hand against his leg. It was enough that the fear abated, but only just. It was enough that when he finally slid off of him and departed, Will missed the contact, the warmth.

           He tried very, very hard to ignore just how much he missed it.

-

Dear Will,

           I long for the day that you ache for me.

                                                                       Yours,

                                                                       -C.R.

           It was pinned to his bedroom door, and Will stared at it for a long time. He thought about taking it down, but in the end he left it there, for reasons he wasn’t entirely prepared to explain.