#instead of covering your eyes while trying to gargle that old man’s balls

[cattailtales]

sometimes the genocide joe propaganda that crosses my dash is so egregiously wrong that I block op immediately and come dangerously close to blocking the person who put it on my dash too. like cut that shit out

[wulfies-kpop-fanfics]

Savior → Kim Namjoon

↳  Pairing: Namjoon/Reader

↳  Word count: 3,757

↳  AU: Police Officer!BTS

↳  Warnings: Mention of rape, conception caused by rape, violence, captivity, involuntary bondage

⁙  Summary: While investigating a crime ring, officer Kim Namjoon advocates for the rescue of the final living captive, who has just fallen pregnant.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Stop screaming!”

Your voice went quiet, your lips closing as best they could over your tightly bound ball gag. You tasted metal, lapping up blood that trickled into your mouth from your cracked lips. More drool trickled down your chin, the replacement for your long dried up tears of pain. Your throat felt even rawer once you had stopped screaming, to the point that you wished you were still doing so. After being yelled at, you knew it was a bad idea. So, you decide to follow the instructions of the distant voice and silently endure the burning pain searing your throat.

You honestly had no idea how you came to be in this situation. For as long as your memory could recall, you’ve been chained to this bed, existing in the darkness, a small room. A hospital cot, small and narrow, covered by a thin and ratty mattress with only a moth-eaten pillow for you to lay your head-on. Ankles bound to the posts by handcuffs: the skin bound, bleeding and scabbing over from your struggle against the restraints.

Sometimes you would be wearing a straitjacket, white and scratchy cloth. It was old, yellowed and rank, tattered and ripped. Your arms would be bound across your chest, perfect braces for missionary. You could have laughed at yourself, feeling the draft through the hole that was cut into the crotch whenever someone entered the room. Sometimes the hole was covered up by a metal chastity belt, most likely to bar you from touching yourself. Not that you could, anyway.

 Sometimes you would be nearly naked, everything out for the world to see, hands bound by rope, zip ties or more metal cuffs against your back and only the belt to cover you. Perfect for being taken from behind, face shoved into your pillow. One thing that always remained was your ball gag, only taken out for 5 minutes each day to feed you. You could not speak words, swallow what was left of your saliva or bite your tongue. If you tried to kill yourself when the gag was removed, you would not be fed, your captors instead deciding to whip you. You knew there were scars all over your back, more recent wounds still bandaged and itchy.

This was the horror of being trapped, wherever you were. Your room was extremely small, only large enough for your bed, a humidifier and a desk where a doctor would sometimes sit. You would never leave this room except for when you were allowed to use the restroom or when the doctor needed more room to examine you. Men would come in here to remove the belt, but you often forced yourself into unconsciousness to deal with whatever happened when they were there. Still, you knew what happened. The wetness and aches between your legs told you as much whenever you awakened. 

That was life, and you could do nothing but deal with it. You were at the mercy of these people, no matter what you could plausibly try. They fed you, treated wounds they inflicted, rented you out. There was next to no light coming into your room despite the large window across from your bed on the opposite wall, so you could enjoy nothing. Sometimes your doctor would turn on the desk’s lamp, but you were often blindfolded so that your eyes wouldn’t become irritated - therefore you couldn’t even remember what real, yellow light looked like.

The smallest amount of artificial light came through the large window connecting your room to the hallway most likely from a ceiling light located further down the hall. It was minimal, blue, dim and barely noticeable, but it did give you the ability to see if people were looking in on days you weren’t blindfolded. Often you would see drooling, scruffy men with unkempt facial hair and moth ate clothes. Other times you would see handsome and young men in sleek and expensive-looking outfits, and finally, you would even more often see a security guard peering in with his arm resting up against the glass.

His facial features were hardly ever something you could see through the dim light, but you could still feel his intense gaze through the darkness. He never smiled, never said anything through the window as the scruffy men would, would never stand with both hands extending downwards to where you could not see as the men in suits. The only thing that was uniquely his was the hat he was always wearing, adorned with a golden badge that would at times catch what little light there was and glint brilliantly on the ceiling.

If you had been staring at the ceiling, like you were right now, you could watch the little light show. That would indicate that he was standing there, silently watching you. Sometimes you would wonder what his purpose was. Since you were so weak and restrained, there was no way you were going to escape or scream loud enough that someone would come to rescue you. Sometimes you wondered if he had a weapon on him. He most likely did, there have been times when you’ve heard distant gunshots. Sometimes you wished that he would just shoot you and end your suffering: you had figured out a long time ago that you weren’t going to leave alive. You thought being shot might be the best way to really get out. 

No matter what you speculated, you were most likely wrong. He would just stand there, arm pressed against the glass. All he did was stare in. He never entered the room or even attempted to communicate through the glass. While his stares didn’t make your skin crawl like everyone else you’ve seen here, it didn’t make you feel any better.

~

“How long does this have to go on?” Namjoon whispered through his phone, hidden outside the facility in a small nook where he could make his phone calls without being suspicious. He looked over his surroundings, the night only lit up by the numerous light posts littered around the field. They would go out soon, indicating that Namjoon would either have to leave for the night or retreat into his excuse for a room. Not that he could complain about his situation, you had it far worse than he did.

“Not much longer. You’re sure that (Y/N) is the last girl alive in there?” The voice on the other line asked. Namjoon sighed, nodding even in the knowledge that his superior could not see him.

“I’m sure. They’ve moved Crystal, but I was never given access to any of the girls’ files other than (Y/N)’s. She’s the last one alive in this place specifically. Either they’re starting to catch on, moving them all to other facilities, or worse… leaving them to die of malnutrition as they move onto different products.” Namjoon sighed again at the use of the term. “Please… I just want to save at least her.”

“We first need to make sure that we have enough of an advantage against the ring that’s orchestrating it, to begin with, special agent. If we can’t take them down, saving (Y/N) will be for nothing.”

Namjoon clenched his free hand into a fist, the other one holding his phone so tightly that it might break, “Chief, please.”

The man on the other line sighs. “Wait until tomorrow, at least. I’ll think about it more tonight, go over it with your team. Get ready to take a call around midday.”

“Yes, sir.”

~

“Come, dear, I’ve got to check you again,” Dr Woo calls softly from the door, closing it and sitting down at the desk the top of your head is currently facing. You can’t respond, and perhaps that is the doctor’s personal way to torment you like the others that come in. He places a few things on the ground by your bed, but you can’t muster the strength to sit up or lean far enough over to look at what it was.

Dr Woo moves from the desk to stand over you, a clipboard in his hand. From the board he picks up your blindfold, watching your reaction, eyes widening as you see it. You hate that blindfold. It smells like you do after the men come in before the doctor comes in to wash you and put your belt back on. The cloth, however, is a different story from you. You don’t believe has ever been washed. It was once white, you think, but it has since been tinted with stains that even you could see in the minimal light. It goes over your eyes despite your whines of protest, your vision was stolen away from you once more.

Dr Woo wipes the drool from your cheeks and chin, soon moving away to place the clipboard on the desk. You hear the tapping of the board against the surface, waiting for Dr Woo to grab you and sit you up straight. But, it doesn’t come.

“(Y/N), sweetie, I need you to answer some questions,” he cooed at you. You would spit on him if you could. You hated how patronizing he was, how condescending he was and how he pretended to be kind. “Nod for yes and shake for no. Understand?”

You nod. You have no choice but to answer, and if you lie, you know that whatever came after that was worse than telling the truth.

“Have you vomited within the last 24 hours?”

Shake for no. If you did, you’d probably have choked on it.

“Have you been experiencing any abdominal cramps recently?”

Nod for yes.

“Okay,” you hear a pen scratching against paper. “Have your breasts felt sore or tender recently?”

Nod for yes.

“Have you been feeling nauseous?”

You try to scoff, but it sounds more like a gargle than anything else.

“I have no patience for sass, (Y/N). Nod or shake.”

Nod for yes.

“Okay, one more question. Have you been feeling more fatigued or sluggish than usual?”

What was that supposed to mean? You’re almost never moving. You feel tired all the time. You try to sigh, and nod.

“Alright. Thank you, (Y/N). Now, I’m going to need you to sit up for me so I can undo your buckles.” You hear Dr Woo move again, the cuffs on your ankles being taken off, but you don’t bother to try and kick him. You’re too exhausted. You don’t move at all until Dr Woo’s hands are under your head and your back, lifting you into a sitting position.

He scoots you until you’re at the edge of your bed. “I’m going to remove your pyjamas, okay?”

Pyjamas? Yeah right. Soon enough all the buckles of your jacket are removed, as well as your belt. His hands are on your breasts briefly, nothing you’re not used to, but you were sore, so his examination of you was more painful than before. He’s then taking your blood pressure and examining your lungs with an ice-cold stethoscope.

“(Y/N), I have a little bucket here for you, it’s right in front of you, so none of it will get on the floor or on your bed. Can you please urinate for me?”

Was someone else in here with the doctor? He’s never had you relieve yourself in this room. Whatever. If he wasn’t going to get you to stand up and escort you to the bathroom, you guessed that this was your only chance to let go today, so you do as he asks.

“Good girl,” Dr Woo praises. Something small is placed against the desk, you can hear the small tap of it hitting the surface of the desk. You’re soon laid back down with your belt and jacket on, your ankles returned to their place in the metal cuffs chained to your bed.

Usually, after his examination, Dr Woo either gives you a shot, wipes lashing marks (if any) and your ankle scabs, or just leaves. However, you know that he hasn’t left the room. He’s waiting for something. You tense up, wondering what his motive could have been. It would be unlikely that he’d tell you, but you wished that today was an exception as your curiosity outweighed your pain.

After what you assumed was a few minutes, a faint ‘click’ sounded in your right ear, coming from whatever the doctor placed on the desk. You heard him pick it up with a quiet “hmmm”. He stood, pacing across the room a few times before turning off the lamp, removing your blindfold and exiting the room.

There were times when you could hear faint conversations happening outside your room. Hoping that Dr Woo would meet with someone just outside, you strained your ears and tilted your head toward the window with attentiveness. In a stroke of luck, two people appeared before the doctor, standing just inside your field of vision. Their faces were of course obscured by the darkness, but their silhouettes were mostly visible.

“We’ve got a problem,” you hear the doctor’s faint voice from outside. It was muted, but still discernible. More drool dribbled its way down your chin as you attempted to swallow out of nervousness.

“What is it, Woo? Is she?” Another voice came. It’s lighter than Woo’s but more harsh and sharp.

“Yes, she’s pregnant.”

Your eyes go wide. There’s another person inside of you? Inside this hell hole? Your chest tightened and you felt like you could cry, but you had long since wasted yourself of tears and the general dehydration barely kept your eyes from drying out in the first place. A choked breath leaves you. Why did this have to happen now?

“What are we going to do about it?” The third voice asked. It was deep, smoother, and much calmer.

“Either I take out her reproductive organs, remove the fetus which could damage her groin, I give her the shots I’ve been developing, or we kill her and find a new girl.”

“We can’t remove her ovaries or anything of the sort. Fixed girls don’t pull nearly as much money as she does. No damage to the groin, I don’t even want to risk it. How far along are your shots?” The second voice asked.

“I have to admit, not far, especially with the resources we have. It could kill her.”

“Fuck. I don’t know if we’ll ever find another girl as durable and as profitable as her...” Voice number two complains.

“But we might just have to.”

~

“Backup’s almost there, Namjoon. Are you sure that’s what they said?” Chief Jin asked.

“Yes, I’m sure. I was standing there with both of them as they talked about it. Right outside her room, too. I saw the test and everything.”

Jin sighs. “Then we really do have no choice. Do you have the key to (Y/N)’s room?”

“I don’t, but I know how to pick it.”

“Close enough. Get in there, get her out. She is the first priority. Your team will take care of the rest,” Jin instructs.

“10/4.”

~

You were startled out of sleep when the knob of your door began to jiggle wildly. “Fuck!” you heard over and over again in the seconds following. Your breathing became ragged. Did they decide to kill you? Where was Dr Woo? Isn’t he the one with the key? You turn your head towards the commotion, not bothering to move the rest of your body. Your neck pops uncomfortably, but an impromptu adjustment is the least of your worries. You couldn’t die, no matter how much you wanted to before. Not now, not while you had another life to protect.

When the door finally flew open, your body jolted in surprise. The silhouette of the security guard was standing in the doorway. Not exactly the executioner you were expecting, but you were getting ready to fight him regardless. He stares down at you, something you’re familiar with but still not exactly used to. The light coming from the hallway illuminates him a little more this time, revealing a round face, thick lips and teardrop-shaped eyes laced with concern.

“We don’t have much time, (Y/N),” he says, walking over to the end of your bed to pick the locks of the metal cuffs. You whine in confusion, wishing that the gag in your mouth was gone. Then again, did you even remember what it was like to do something other than scream? Did you remember how to talk?

“I’m special agent Kim Namjoon. I’ve been undercover here for almost a year, and it’s about time that I get you out,” he explains. “My friends are coming to get the bad guys while I carry you away.”

You sniffle in relief but stay still as your ankles are freed in the slight disbelief that this was actually happening. You’ve been here for a long time. You couldn’t even tell if it was daytime, night or even what day, month, or year it was anymore. Why would someone come for you now? Let alone the person who had been constantly staring at you in silence?

Namjoon slowly moves his hands to your head, raising his eyebrows and waiting for a nod before lifting your head and undoing the clasp that kept the gag in your mouth, successfully allowing you to breathe properly and put your jaw back in the position it was supposed to be in. You lick your dry lips, swallowing in satisfaction and moving your jaw side to side to pop it.

“Can you speak?” He asks, his hands now moving to your back and under your knees, lifting you into his arms.

You shake your head. There was no point in trying.

“Okay, let’s get you home.” He leans to something attached to the pocket on the chest of his jacket. “I’ve got her. Let’s go.”

It wasn’t long after that Namjoon broke into a run, effectively but not intentionally jostling you around. The movement began to hurt your head, eventually causing you to pass out.

~

When you awoke, you found yourself in another dark room, still brighter than the one you had just been occupying not long ago. Your surroundings weren’t exactly identifiable, you were once again living in little more than the place where you were held captive, but it didn’t feel or smell like death and sex.

You licked your lips. No ball gag. You lifted your leg as best you could. No ankle cuffs. Your arms were resting at either side of your body. No straitjacket. You rolled your head from side to side. A fully fluffed and warm pillow was beneath you. You wiggled your hips. No belt. A wave of warmth and feathery softness washed over you, indicating that a thick blanket had gently been spread over you.

“So, you’re awake,” a voice softly calls from your left. When you spot Namjoon, he smiles. “Don’t try and talk yet, Dr Summers says your throat is still raw.”

You nod.

“You’re in the General Marine Hospital if you’re wondering. How are you feeling? Alright?”

You nod again. He continues to smile.

“Good. Here, I have something for you.” From his lap, Namjoon hands you a teddy bear, fuzzy and soft. He places it in your hand, allowing your fingers to weakly curl over its hand and feel the fabric. “His name is Ryan. Take good care of him, okay?”

“Okay,”

“Shh, I know you will.”

Namjoon continued to sit with you, through the occasional visit from Dr Summers and the filing in and out of his team of police officers. Officers Kim Taehyung, Kim Seokjin, Jung Hoseok, Min Yoongi, Park Jimin and Jeon Jungkook were all very sweet, determined to bring justice to the men who hurt you. They would bring small bowls of jello and little popsicles for you along with cups of coffee for Namjoon whenever they visited. They would ask the occasional yes or no question before taking their leave again. But Namjoon stayed.

He would fall asleep in his chair, sometimes with his head leaning back, sometimes with his forehead pressed against the edge of your bed’s mattress. Somehow, you didn’t mind. You felt grateful to him, having saved your life and all. You wondered if he had a family, and what they would think about him never leaving the side of a beaten, nearly dead pregnant girl. You wondered if you had a family, but somehow, you felt that the doubt in your chest was telling you the truth. If you had a family, they’d be here.

Over time, the investigation ended and six months later you attended the trial of your captors through a video call, still only able to answer yes or no questions, Dr Summers’ fear of you never being able to speak again rendering you from answering any complicated questions. But even when Namjoon was assigned to other cases, he would still come every day to see you, to make sure you were okay and if you were taking good care of Ryan.

He would hold your hand, stroking the palm gently with his thumb as he smiled down at you, his former intense gaze relaxing into something you might have been able to see as affection. That alone was something that made your smile return. His stories were things that motivated you to eat. His encouragement and help also gave you the determination to learn how to walk again.

Perhaps after all this, you find it in your heart to feel something other than pain.

On the day you gave birth to Jihoon, you were finally able to speak. You had to have a C-Section, and you spent another three days in a medically induced coma. That was nothing, and you knew it was to keep your son safe. You felt as if Jihoon blessed you, somehow not loathing the fact that the biological father was some stranger who was a part of your torture. To you, little Jihoon’s father was Namjoon, the man who saved your life, the man who gave you life, the man who cured your doubts. The man you fell in love with.

“You know,” Namjoon said after you reawoke, little Jihoon cooing in his arms, “he already looks like you.”

“If…” you try, Namjoon shushing you. “If,” you persist, “if he looks like me, then… he’s going to be brave and smart like you.”

Namjoon smiled down at you. “I hope he’s as brave as both of us.”

[pyroclaststan]

CW: body horror, gore, graphic depictions of injuries, Nanosurge event

The two of you had been running and you made it so far—you were going to get away, you were going to make it, but then Syrah started screaming.

She hit the ground flailing, howling, peeling apart. It was like her skin was disappearing from her limbs, and she kept yelling, pieces of her mouth starting to disappear, too.

There are no words you could ever use to describe the noise of someone gargling on blood and bile and those things as they ate through her lungs and chest and throat.

To describe the sight of your lifelong best friend sloughing apart and disappearing before your very eyes as she tries to scream and call out, only to be unmade.

In her final throws she reached out for you.

It hurt.

Now it feels like burning, and stinging, and itching all at once.

You cannot look away as the horror settles into you, freezing you in place. You watch as your left leg peeled, layer by layer, and eaten like the many before you—like the many around you.

It hurts, but you cannot scream, you cannot sob: you saw how they got into your best friend’s mouth that way. It ended quicker for her than the others but you do not want an end at all.

You kick the remnants of your leg in futility, as if to shake them off with sheer willpower as they eat their way closer. It’s all you can do. The swarm on you is multiplying; you see them like a hive of ants, now beginning to eat away at your fingers.

No one will be coming for you.

There is a chorus of screams a few yards away.

“NO!” a bloodcurdling howl of a voice echoes out.

It is the wretched, horrible scream of someone desperate out there, and your head whips around for the source despite your situation. Someone is close enough that they might see you—you might live.

Further across the field three—no, a body, just two—of the Rangers are gathered. One of them is actually not a Ranger at all but that vigilante you’ve seen, Sidestep, who is standing over the writhing form of Marshal Charge, hands out.

In the fields around you, you see the swarms of those creatures coalesce and gather, all stopping mid air before moving towards Sidestep, floating up and over their head like a rippling ball of shimmering black water. A river Styx of souless little creatures.

Looking down you realise that your leg is no longer being flayed by the microscopic monsters, flesh and bone gone like it was never there; your hands shake as you desperately peel off your shirt to tie around the stump, hoping through your panic it stems the bleeding as your adrenaline fades. You’ve never done anything like this before—your hands are shaking awfully. Blood loss and possible shock making you run cold.

In the few minutes more that follow the pause of those things, as you clutch what’s left of you, you hear more screams and the sounds of heavy footsteps: everyone left is being evacuated and before you know it Charge himself is beside you, scooping you into his arms before sprinting along with the crowds of survivors as if he weren’t screaming earlier. You were just close enough that he saw you; you clench his shoulders with your tremoring hands, unable to stop the tears that pour down your sweating skin. You’ve never known death this closely. You don’t know if your fear or relief is greater.

Surrounding the two of you are the desperate, the pleading, the injured, but you cannot tear your eyes away from their target to see all of them. Your hearing is muffled by a ringing of tinnitus, even as Charge hands you over to another person before running back to save others struggling out there. As all the heroes get to work while they have this new advantage.

You can’t stop watching Sidestep.

They stand there, alone, hands held to the sky as if to hold a barrier around the writhing mass of murderers. You think of the class last week: the Titan Atlas holding up the heavens. You see the way their arms and legs shake, muscles sure to be straining, their heavy breaths under their super-suit. There is no dramatic lighting or music to highlight their effort, this dire situation is all too real. They’re too close to those swarms but they don’t budge an inch, a hand coming to their head as they let out a bellow of pain.

The man holding you is trying to flee with you, but you can’t stop twisting in his arms—you need to see this: you need to witness what Sidestep is doing, what Sidestep has done. Someone needs to remember that they are alone amongst those… demons.

Others are watching too, crying, and after some time when Sidestep’s knee buckles and their hands fall to brace themself the entire crowd flinches as one. The swarm wavers looking like they might escape and spread again, but Sidestep’s hand quickly rises back up and they fall back into their synchronised swim. The terror is palpable, the air is thick, the smells of the dead nauseating in the breeze, but you all cannot stop watching. Even the reporters are keeping a silent vigil, unable to believe any of this.

A hero is saving you.

Time passes and you’ve all huddled together, taking care of each other, locating family, slipping out silent prayers. A nurse who was among the survivors has helped you with your leg so far: medical should be arriving soon, you won’t be saving that leg. You might have lost too much blood, or you will. She’s just waiting for the shock to set it now, holding your hand so you’re not alone through it.

But you don’t care because out there so many have lost more than you. Others are still fighting so you all don’t lose more, even now. And one is stemming the tide.

Charge is behind Sidestep as they keep on despite being brought to their knees and struggling, posted like a sentry but gripping his own arm, and you can almost make out the look of abject horror on his face as he watches the swarm hovering before them; small flickers of static arcs when the hive moves or breaks synchronisation.

Medical has arrived and you are being carted off to a rescue vehicle while containment is still on the way, but you still don’t look away—you can’t look away. It has been hours and they are shaking and they are struggling but they are holding. You burn that sight into the back of your head before the ambulance doors close. Your hero.

Your dream always ends there: you were gone before they’d collapsed. Before it was over.

———

Today is the anniversary of that awful day; the persistent nightmare that haunts even your days through all the scars. It’s hard to go outside most days, hard to watch the news and catch a glimpse of that silver woman that scares you so much. It’s hard to do much of anything that isn’t sitting locked in your workspace, building, tinkering, or fixing. But this day is an exception to all those great fears.

You stop by the florist with the modded hand: she remembers the day as well as you, sometimes the two of you talk about it while you work on her hand. She’s bundling up Syrah’s yearly bouquet, handpicking each flower by some meanings you’ve never gotten around to learning about them, stopping only to help a haggard looking man she also seems to know well with a bundle of white chrysanthemums. You can smell the alcohol on him from here, but that’s none of your business: today is a hard day for more people than you and Maritsa.

She tells you to give her love to your old friend; she never goes herself, no matter how much time passes. She lost too much to that nightmare—a wife, two kids, some family.

Your eyes linger on one of the few white chrysanthemums that man left behind, scratching the scar tissue buildup on your finger’s skin weave, something telling you to pick one of those up, too. Her garden hardy mums cost a lot but you know anything she grows in her greenhouse is well worth the price.

Heading out with your newspaper bouquet in hand, you fall into step with the Los Diablos crowds, easily able to pick out who in the crowd is headed the same way as you. You can see it in their heavy steps and weighted shoulders and you wonder if you show it, too.

The memorial isn’t a plot of headstones—too many were lost for that—but instead a large stone and steel wall, covered from one end to another with names and birthdays of victims. Flowers, candles, teddy bears, liquor, and photos rest on the ground here every year, and every year the crowd and offerings grow smaller. Everyone eager to forget.

You take your place in front of Syrah’s name, fingers sliding quietly against the stone that’s too cold for having sat in Diablos’ heat as long as it has. To your right you see Desiderio placing his usual marigolds—also from Maritsa’s—against the stone, then falling into prayers as he always does. The flowers in your hands begin to feel too heavy so you set them down, quietly sit in prayer with Desi, and hold each other once the tears that always come arrive.

It’s a small, distant family you’ve made out of this place and the only other people who could understand your loss; no matter how much time passes between gatherings you all know you have each other. But you cannot stay all day, lost in the memories: you have one more important stop to make.

At the gates of your destination a man in a grey hoodie and a larger man in a blue one passes you, and once again you are hit by a wave of booze. Looking after them, you notice the back of the smaller, hunched over one: it’s that man again, being escorted by someone you hope is his friend. A few moments more and you draw in a deep breathe, gathering resolve before heading in.

So here you are at yet another memorial. Not the memorial to that scarred, barren earth you pointedly avoid looking at but the memorial to the hero you’d lost, gone after another even that shook the city to its core before they ended it. The hero this entire city lost. The dark headstone that’s all that’s left of Sidestep.

The black and teal hoodie you’ve worn in over the years always feel likes the only thing appropriate to wear as you sit here, sitting before the looming stone in your usual spot, staring at the bundle of white flowers and the half-full beer can beside it. Chrysanthemums bundled up with Maritsa’s trademark twine. A smaller bunch of white lilies next to it, from somewhere else. That man’s modded friend maybe; you know the signs like you know the smell of the dead. All too well.

You scratch the phantom itch crawling along the former calf and thigh of your modded leg, unable to chase away the ghost of a life past. Unable to turn back the clock. Unable to say thank you.

You set your flowers down next to that man’s, hoping that he found peace in his visit here like you do. Hoping that someone’s there to help him through that event and its scars, too. You really hope that was a friend.

The picture of your masked hero is peeling from all the rain and heat, the flowers and offerings dwindling as folks try to forget those terrible events, but you remain. Year after year.

Living is the only thanks you can give them.

[phantomphangphucker]

Ectober Day 29: Light + Week Orb/Reanimate - Exorcists Can’t Save Me Now Chap.2:  Dolly Hearts

You know what’s happening here, but with a bonus of the creepy possessed doll trope.

Tucker sits on the floor, leaning his back against the doll, “I know this is some crazy cool stuff dude, but somehow I doubt Other-Danny can really appreciate this”.

Danny just rolls his eyes, he still does get a bit of a kick out of the nickname they gave It being ‘Other-Danny’; thank you Coraline and Sam’s love of Tim Burton. Least she wasn’t still trying to give It button eyes, though Danny’s got no idea where all the buttons kept disappearing to. He’s honestly genuinely suspiciously Dammy ate them or absorbed them or something. Magic was weird. Probably bugged his parents that he believed the whole ‘magic doll’ thing over the ‘ghosts are real’ thing. But Dammy literally grew and stuff, kinda hard to ignore that. He has yet to see a freaking ghost.

Sam shakes her old school camera, “just get over here you goof, time to look stupid for the camera”. Danny sticks his tongue out at her before posing. Which yeah, probably looks stupid.

Tucker watches Danny walk in the giant creation with a small smile, all this tech stuff was so cool! Though glancing sideways at feeling movement and feeling just slightly unnerved by Dammy actually moving Its head to be ‘looking’ right at the portal. Alright. That’s freaky. “Uh, Danny-dude? Other you is doin’ that paying attention to you thing”, wasn’t that supposed to be some death omen thingy?

Danny turns his head, “huh?”, genuinely feeling cautious but not getting to do shit about that at the sound of a click and static. Snapping his head back towards the back of the portal and seeing the green light there, “oh fu-”.

Tucker jerks to stand up, Sam hovering worriedly by the portal as a massive beam of green light flashes out of the thing. Both immediately clamping their hands over their ears at the sound of screaming. Dammy is also making some kind of static noise, somehow staying sitting upright. That was freaky enough to give them something other than the god awful sound to focus on.

Sam still manages to catch Danny? or what she thinks is him, when he? falls out. Tucker also moving to grasp the person-shaped black and white static, “D-Danny man?”. Both teens wincing at the sound? he? makes.

“We can’t, oh god, can’t understa-”, Tucker getting cut off by Dammy sparking all over with green electricity and shooting bolts of lightning at the static Danny. Both Sam and Tucker yelping and jumping back, having gotten zapped themselves in the process; electricity jumping over their fingers and forearms.

The two wince and rub at their fingers before watching more than a little wide-eyed at the electricity stuff jumping all over static Danny and looking as if it was tugging at him or something. Tucker blurting out, “I don’t know how aware you are dude! But I think Dammy’s trying to pull you in or something!”.

Sam looks to him, “do you, fuck, do you think he’s even aware what’s going on?”.

“Sam, I don’t even know what the Hell’s going on! And I’m pretty sure Danny just got fried to a crisp, so what the Hell do you think!”.

“Oh don’t you snap at me! I was just asking a damn question!”.

“My best friend probably just died! So I think I’m allowed to snap at whoever the Hell I want!”.

“Like Hell you are!”.

“Shut up!”.

“No!”, Sam doesn’t get to say more than that as static Danny seemingly snaps into Dammy. The two friends watching green rays of almost blinding light shoot out of the ‘eyes’ before dimming into two little green orbs of light inside the pitch black of the eye sockets and move around a bit before the doll lurches forward, grasps Its stomach, and the stitched line opens up like a mouth to immediately vomit up chunks of cotton and herbs. Sam blinks, “oh man, we so need to get the Fenton’s”. Tucker just nods slowly, as they both gulp and move closer to the doll.

Tucker putting a hand on It/his back, “Danny?”. The doll hacks a bunch, more bits of mess coming out, and nods faintly. So Tucker pats his back, “alright, okay”, looking to the side and whispering, “holy fucking shit”, glancing at Sam then back to Danny, “just get it all out of... your system, man”.

Danny makes a sound that’s kinda like someone rubbing two marshmallows together. Tucker swallows, “still can’t understand you, man”. While Sam comes around the other side and gives him a soothing arm rub, “do you think you can move?”. Oh Hell, they messed up bad.

They watch as he very jerkily puts a hand to the ground, moving to help him stand; which he’s also jerky and stiff about. Danny makes more of the marshmallow sounds as he leans against Tucker. Though Tucker’s positive Danny was saying something along the lines of ‘thanks’. Tucker’s just trying to not be freaked out by the soft plushie feel of Danny’s body. Sure he was used to Dammy being around, but that was just Danny’s kinda weird doll thing. Now It wasn’t just a doll thing. Was there even a Dammy anymore? Man this was so messed up.

The two friends watch and steady Danny as he cranes his? head around in a way that was closer to limp lolling. Them both feeling him stiffening when he catches his reflection in the far side mirror. Sam and Tucker following his line of sight, staring at the vibrate green glowing orbs reflecting off harsh enough to practically blackout the rest of the mirror. Both of them wincing at more marshmallow sounds, though it sounds more ‘alarmed’ this time.

Tucker gives him a small squeezes on the shoulder, “for the love of everything, please be able to learn to talk like a freaking person again”. Sam smacks him for that. But Danny makes something like a velcro sound that sounds close enough to a laugh.

Sam looks to him, more than a little thankful she’s well used to seeing the lipless hollow-socketed face, even if the green light ball things were unnerving, “do you want me to get your folks”, nodding her head at Tucker, “this idiot will probably raid the fridge instead”.

Danny doesn’t move for a bit before nodding slowly, making more marshmallow noises and stiffly grabbing his throat with one hand.

Tucker pushes Danny to sit down as Sam bolts up the stairs, Danny repeatedly making more noises while squeezing and poking his throat. Tucker grabbing his shoulder, making him jerkily look to him, before pulling him in and hugging him close, “you-fuck, you don’t know how bloody happy I am for Dammy right now. That you had, have, I don’t know, Other-Danny”, squeezing him a bit more, “fuck Danny”, wheezing a chuckle out, “so, I guess ghosts exist huh?”. Not surprised to get marshmallow in return, the tone’s softer and maybe worried? though so he pats him on the back and let’s go; wiping his face a bit with his arm as he goes.

Both turn their heads to the side at Maddie practically bolting down the stairs, Sam right behind. “You kids aren’t supposed to be down here unsupervised, you know this”.

Tucker stands up immediately, holding his palms out pacifyingly, “we know we know, it’s just the tech’s so cool and things weren’t working and we do know some lab safety and-”. Cutting himself off as Danny jerkily stands and wavers badly, Tucker moving to steady him.

Maddie blinks and stares at the moving doll, slowly looking progressively more horrified, “Danny?”.

The thread that makes up Its mouth moves up into a wobbly-looking nervous smile. The doll nods a little. She staggers over, grabbing Its-his? arm and pulling his? hand into hers. Staring at the skin-like fabric, the nailless fingers, the threads and seams, “oh Danny, what did you do”, and hugging him. Hugging the doll that housed him. He makes gurgling fuzzy sounds. Maddie letting go and stepping back a little to steady herself and give him some room, while Tucker gives a weak smile and nudges the doll's shoulder, “hey, that was closer to words this time”.

Danny looks to him and makes some sounds while doing something that vaguely resembles a scowl. Then looking to Sam as she walks over and hugs him too, “you’re such an idiot”.

“ɥ͜͜͝ɐ̡̡̨͘ǝ̸̷̧̨̢⅄̵͝”.

All three wince, Sam and Tucker moving to cover their ears a little. Tucker grumbling, “I’d prefer the fuzz and marshmallows over that”. Danny winces and practically smacks himself in the face while going to cover his ‘mouth’ with his hand.

Maddie whispers, “that was ghost speak”, shaking her head and moving to touch his throat gently, swallowing, “your.. dolls muscles and voice box is made of cotton and sugar string, you’ll have to learn how to use them”. Looking to her son's friends and noticing the odd burns on their fingertips, “what happened to your fingers?”, which instantly gets Danny’s attention too.

Tucker looks at his fingers, at least it didn’t hurt, and looks back to her, “oh uh, we were kinda close to Danny when Dammy went all crazy light show and, like, sucked Danny in with lightning or something”. Maddie looks to Danny curiously. Danny just starts doing something akin to flailing and looking back and forth from his friends, gargling a bunch.

“Hey woah man, it’s not your fault. Heck! You didn’t even do it! And Dammy just did what It was literally designed to do“.

Sam nods and squeezes his arm, “yeah, I’m just glad you’re in this thing”.

Maddie looks around, noticing the mess on the ground and blinking, “did... did you throw up?”. Danny nods and looks to be trying to quirk an eyebrow but it’s not really working. But that... that wasn’t supposed to happen. So why? The only thing she can think of is that his friends might have interfered with something.

Tucker and Sam frown when Maddie rushes off to her computer systems, Sam snapping, “is that bad? Is Dammy not functioning right? It’s not rejecting Danny or something is It?”. Tucker just nods worriedly. Danny points at his friends then smacks a palm into his chest, his chest felt weird; especially if he was supposed to be a ghost... dead.

Maddie nabs up a scanner and rushes back to Danny’s doll, putting it to his ‘eyes’, “sorry sweetie, your eyes are the only part of your... ghost that’s accessible”.

Tucker blinks, “wait, those glowy light ball things are actually eyes”. Danny grunts, probably something along the lines of saying ‘obviously’ or maybe being offended.

“Well technically it’s a culmination of ectoplasm but a ghosts eyes always have the highest concentration outside of their Cores. So eyes yes, but also no”, shaking her head and pulling the scanner back. Blinking down, a bit dumbfounded, at the results, “you... Danny, you’re... still human”.

Sam and Tucker both immediately blurt, “WHAT!”, and Danny makes a high-pitched grating sound, then taps at the left of his chest.

Maddie squints but moves to put her hand over the spot, going a little slacked jawed, “there... you have a heartbeat”. Danny nods rapidly but stiffly. Maddie shakes herself off and looks down to the scanner while Sam and Tucker both grapple over his chest, obviously wanting to make sure for themselves.

Maddie looks from the reading to the two teens and back again. Those two, they always were her boy’s miracle friends. The only ones unphased by his oddness and accepting of the doll. Who would all go to weird lengths to help and protect and support each other; apparently more so than she ever thought even possible. Once again looking to the teens, “you two, it’s because of you two”.

The two look to her in obvious confusion.

“What do you mean by that?”.

“Huh? But we didn’t really... do anything”.

Maddie shakes her head, turning the device around to face them, “when you got zapped. The ecto-electricity picked up bits of your DNA and took it with it. Human DNA”.

Danny looks back and forth between his two friends, looking a bit like he’s gonna cry, not that he actually can though, and hugs both of them around the neck; pulling them into him. His arms bend in a circle rather than at the elbow though Sam and Tucker don’t really care and smile up against his doll cheeks, but pause, turning their heads towards Maddie, “wait, does that mean we’re related now?!?”.

Maddie lets herself smile almost meanly at that, though with a level of relief underneath, “just a little bit”. Danny makes a tearing sound not unlike Velcro, the two other teens rolling there eyes as he lets go of their necks; arms falling to his sides with soft thwaps.

Maddie tears her eyes away, this, Danny being fabric and the ecto-energy contained inside that bled out the eye sockets, was going to take some getting used to. Her looking over their machinery and glancing back at the cotton pile on the ground. He had a heartbeat so maybe... Moving to set up one of their body scanners while Danny makes some kind of puff sounds.

Sam and Tucker couldn’t care less what Mrs. Fenton was up to, far more focused on trying to help Danny with the whole ‘walking on legs that don’t have bones or fleshy muscles’ thing. As they sort of guide him to walk around, all three watching the legs wobble and bend at odd angles; he does seem to be getting better pretty quickly though, even if he seems annoyed.

Tucker chuckles after a bit, deciding making light of this crap was the best idea and the one his goddamn sticking to, “you know, I always wanted a little brother”, and looks down at him slightly emphasising his slightly taller height. Danny, predictably, shoves him.

Sam rolls her eyes, “don’t expect to get any of Nana’s inheritance though”. Danny and Tucker exchange confused looks, though it’s kinda hard to tell on Danny. Tucker asking with Danny pointing at him, “huh?”.

Sam grumbles, “forget it, doesn’t mean anything”. And once more getting blocked from saying anything more by Maddie.

“Alright, So I think I might have an idea why and how you threw up”. Which gets all three teens' attention, hoping that something really wasn’t wrong with the doll. Both friends stepping to the side a bit to let her use the invention, whatever it was. Watching it shoot out a wide beam of light and move over the doll's entire body. Danny tilting his head at a little too sharp of an angle after; the unblinking orbs making the effect seem wide-eyed and both more child-like and a little creepy.

Maddie blinks at the result, even more dumbfounded but also happy, ridiculously happy. Looking back to Danny and not being able to help smiling some; ignoring the totally unnatural head tilt, “my guess was right”, turning the screen to the teens, “you threw up to make room for organs. Heart, lungs, stomach; it’s all there”.

Sam sounds more than a little morbidly curious, “so there are fleshy bloody organs in there? How in the?”, looking to Danny, “glad you still have that stuff though”.

Tucker chimes in with, “especially a stomach! How else are we supposed to have burger eating contests?”. Sam scowls at him, but is honestly glad for the normalcy.

Maddie tilts her head a little and frowns slightly, “no they’re probably made of sugar, fondant, and maybe some blood cells. Some of the dolls spices too maybe. Cotton for lungs? The density is right”. She would like to actually know but... no, not happening. Stuffing the completed doll and stitching It shut when they made It had been unpleasant enough. And Danny probably wouldn’t enjoy that.

Tucker grabs and bends the doll's arm in a circle, “and his bones?”. Danny grunting at him for that and yanking his arm away, guy could have at least asked before treating him like a twist tie; though yeah, what the Hell.

Maddie glances back to the device's screen, “I think there’s sugar string trying to be bones”, looking back to Danny, “but obviously that’s not really working. There’s nothing really solid enough in the doll to be bones, sorry sweetie”.

Danny’s string mouth contorts a bunch and no one can really tell what kind of facial expression he’s trying to make, “p҉͟ᴉ͏d҉̷̧͢n̡͜͝ʇ̴͝S͘͢ ̸̷˙̸s͘͢ǝ̷̧̨u̸o̷͢q̸̨̧͜͞ ̸̢̛̛͟o̷̢҉͡u̸͢͠ ̶͡s͠͠u̷̧͠ɐ͘͜͡͏ƃ̷̛ɹ̛͟o̕͏̨҉”. Then covering his ‘mouth’ again when everyone winces. “Sree”. Then grinning a bit stupidly at getting an actual English sounding sound out. Everyone else grinning at him a bit too.

Maddie gives an understanding nod, “your actual body is energy, a... ghost, it makes sense their language would be a default for you”, sighing a little, “if it wasn’t for your doll that’s probably all you could speak”.

Tucker butts in a bit awkwardly, “he was just making static sounds before. So I think he still took some time to learn or whatever”. Sam rolls her eyes, “he was head to toe static before, moron”.

Maddie scrunches her eyebrows, studying Danny, “maybe that’s just how ghosts look before they stabilise. The dolls are supposed to house the person before they stabilise after all”, squinting a little, “do you think you can stick out your tongue?”, the doll didn’t have one, so that was another area where the ghost inside was supposed to be able to be seen.

Danny gives a stiff shrug, arms flapping around limply a bit from the motion, and sticks out his tongue with absolutely no idea where this is going.

Sam and Tucker snort and chuckle a little at the glowing green forked thing, with bits of static or electricity spiking off it here and there but it was mostly solid.

Maddie nods, also noting the sharp teeth the doll had sprouted, at least those weren’t glowing. Just a little too white though. Just enough to feel wrong. Seemed slightly transparent too, especially at the tips. “I’d say you’re stabilised now-”.

Sam cuts her off, grabbing Danny’s face and prodding the teeth, “woah! You’ve got fangs! Damnit, now I’m jealous”. Tucker starts laughing while Danny bats away her hands, joining in with Velcro sounds after a bit though.

Tucker pats him, “and nice snake tongue, dude”. Danny makes more alarmed marshmallow sounds before sticking his tongue back out and grabbing at it. It feels like he’s going wide-eyed, but without eyelids that’s kind of hard to tell; the green orbs do get a bit wider though.

Maddie gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile, “ghost usually only resemble humans, sweetie. There’s bound to be changes. Just maybe don’t stick your tongue out at people”.

Tucker immediately blurts out, “or do! Bet than would totally freak Dash out!”. Maddie gives a fond sigh at that, though hoping he doesn’t actually do that. Part of the point of the dolls was so the ghost wouldn’t start terrorising people, by force or by choice.

Danny covers his mouth, effectively conveying that he would not be doing that. Or at least not till he was at least comfortable with all of... this. Being able to feel his heart beating seriously helped, though actually being able to feel it brushing up against soft cotton was supremely weird. And the staticky tingling running around everywhere was very distracting. Though that might be the only reason he’s not having a total meltdown right now. He had literally died, stoled his friends' DNA, and hijacked Dammy’s ‘body’; which fine, was kinda the point and meant Dammy was serving Its purpose but still.

Maddie pats Danny’s head, making a point to not be weirded out by the stringy texture of his hair, “maybe I should make us some food, you should be able to eat it. Also, you are not going to school tomorrow or for the next few days”.

All three teens go wide-eyed -or wide-orbed in Danny’s case- realising the slight issue. Sam and Tucker glancing at Danny. His ‘skin’ was noticeably fabric, the string ‘mouth’ absolutely couldn’t pass as even kinda normal, his ‘eyes’ were an obvious issue, people might not notice the lack of fingernails and same with the shark teeth, and then there was the boneless problem, oh and he couldn’t speak. Danny just jerkily rubs at his neck before pointing upstairs and making marshmallow noises.

[celebratorypenguin]

Fic: Lachrimae Antiquae Novae

Rating: PG-13 for language

Genfic, but could be considered McLennon if you squint

Summary: In which I visit Overused Trope Land with a story about Hurricane Dora/"The Night We Cried." The title is from a set of seven Pavanes by John Dowland, and roughly translated it means "Old Tears, Renewed."

This setup with all four of them is based on one of Paul’s conflicting recollections of that night, when they were ALL in the room and Ringo ended up in the bathtub.

Lachrimae Antiquae Novae

Key West, Florida September 10, 1964

***

Once the jam session ended, there wasn't anything else to do but drink.

"Thank you, Dora," said George as he poured scotch for Paul and himself into plastic cups before passing the bottle to John. "We needed a night to ourselves."

John decanted a liberal amount for himself, then splashed some into the cup in Ringo's outstretched hand. "Let's drink to her." The four men raised their makeshift glasses and said in unison, "Here's to Hurricane Dora."

"And a good night's sleep," Paul added. His voice was creaky with overuse and the beginning of a cold.

"Not sure how much sleep we'll be getting tonight, crammed in here like sardines," Ringo sighed. "A man needs to stretch out, you know."

Because of the emergency surrounding the approaching hurricane, the band had been able to secure only one room, with two tight double beds and a tiny bathroom. Brian and the crew had to stay in an even smaller and less comfortable motel down the road.

"We've slept in worse situations than this one," John reminded everyone when their faces began to reflect annoyance. "No holes in a windscreen and no dirty movies playing in our ears. And we've got a proper bathtub." He nudged Ringo with his elbow and grinned maniacally at him. "A veritable palace, this place."

In reality, it was a barely-respectable motel. John had doubts about how sturdy the building might actually be, but he kept them to himself. With George absolutely exhausted, Ringo apprehensive about the storm, and Paul trying not to come down with something, they were on enough of an edge already.

For himself, John was just glad not to be on the move. Brian had supplied them with snacks, candles, and a shocking amount of liquor, so they were all set for the night. The fact that there was a bed to sleep in instead of an airplane seat sounded just great to John, even if the bed was going to contain an extra Beatle.

Paul sneezed, looking surprised that it was happening to him. "Ugh. Sorry," he sniffed as he rubbed the end of his nose with one of the tissues he held in a tight ball.

George poured more scotch into Paul's glass. "Here, drink some more. Kill the germs."

"Ta." Paul took a long swallow and winced. "It's like gargling with battery acid."

"Good. It's burning the snot out of your throat so you'll be able to sing by tomorrow night," John said lightly even though he was concerned about how rotten Paul was starting to sound.

"If we get to sing tomorrow night." Ringo's words were strained. "If we don't wake up in Oz what with this storm and all."

George, whose rosy cheeks hinted at how tipsy he was becoming, snickered. "Here you were a Hurricane for all these years and it turns out you're scared of 'em!"

Everyone laughed. John looked fondly at George. Rather than being a maudlin drunk like the rest of them, the first few drinks tended to bring George's humorous side bubbling to the surface of his personality. It was always a joy to see the furrows between George's eyebrows lessen, to see a full smile instead of the brief flashes of teeth he gave when he was uptight.

John took a good, long swallow before setting the cup down on the shaggy brown carpet. "Might as well get comfortable, fellas. I'm gonna change so I'll already be in pyjamas by the time I pass out." Standing up was a bit more of a problem than he'd expected, but he felt Paul steadying him with a strong hand on his leg. The hand was warm, too warm, but John decided to get comfortable now and check on Paul's temperature later.

It wasn't as if any of them would be leaving the room tonight.

They took turns in the little bathroom, changing into pyjamas while the other three plucked or drummed at nothing in particular. By the time they were all back in the bedroom they were well into the third bottle and the storm was raging all around them. Wind and pounding rain rattled the windows. Distant flashes of lightning went off like strobe lights and the accompanying thunderclaps got closer and closer together.

John actually enjoyed a good storm now and again; the rumbling thunder and faint scent of ozone made him drowsy. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ringo's frown. "Best have another one," John said as he passed the bottle. "We're in for a long night."

"I was counting the seconds between the flash and the thunder," Ringo said, but he didn't turn down the offer of more scotch. "You can tell how close the storm's getting. At least that's what my mum always said."

Paul cast a quick glance at John. It was a reflex, the way he always checked on John when a mother was mentioned in their presence. More than one interviewer had made the faux pas of asking the two of them about their mothers, and no matter how many times it happened John always felt flat-footed when replying. It upset and annoyed him, but what he really hated was the tiny flash of sadness that always, always crossed Paul's face before he had a chance to hide it from John.

Tonight, between the scotch and the fever, Paul wasn't able to school his features as well as usual. His lips trembled and his wide eyes were suspiciously shiny. He opened his mouth as if to say something, seemed to change his mind, and instead slumped against John's shoulder.

"What is it?" John asked quietly, giving Paul a chance to whisper it if he didn't feel secure enough to say it aloud.

Paul shook his head. "It's daft," he murmured.

"That never stops me." Ringo's deadpan delivery and sly smile told John that he was attempting to lighten Paul's mood. John grinned at him, grateful for the attempt.

Paul shifted his head so that he could talk without a mouthful of John's pyjama top. "D'you remember her voice? Julia's?"

"God, what...what?" John stammered. He had to think about it for a moment, had to force himself to return to a time when Julia's silver laughter rang out in delight, when she told John how clever and wonderful he was. "Yeah. It was a nice voice, I remember liking how smooth and cool it was."

George nodded in agreement. "And she could sing, too. She loved listening to us and singing along just like the kids."

The pain John felt in remembering his mother was acute, even six years later, but when Paul whispered, "I can't remember my mum's voice," John's heart nearly broke for him.

George gently said, "She was a nice lady, your mum," then his face fell. He reached out a slender hand and put it on Paul's knee. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Paul, confused, patted George's hand and shrugged at John. "For what?" he asked.

"For my perfect life," George said in a thick, miserable tone.

Well, George usually wasn't a maudlin drunk. There's a first time for everything, John said to himself.

Paul's eyebrows shot up and he coughed slightly. "Son, I don't have a clue what you're on about."

"You three all had it so rough, and here I was happy with my mum and my dad and my sister and brothers!"

John, who knew exactly how poverty-stricken the Harrisons had been before the Beatles made it big, felt his heart swell that George considered himself so fortunate compared to his friends. "I dunno, George. I mean, Mendips was a pretty swish place to live."

"It was hard losing my mother, but I have my dad and Mike," Paul added.

"My mum and Harry took good care of me every time I got sick," Ringo said after a pause. "We didn't have much, but I never doubted that they loved me."

John was relieved that Ringo had the delicacy not to remind them that he was from an actual slum, because that would have set George off even more.

George nodded. John leaned over and peered into his face. "How much have you had to drink, there, George?"

"Not as much as Paul."

Paul, whose face was ghostly pale, suddenly doubled over with his arms around himself.

"Uh-oh," Ringo warned, getting to his feet faster than anyone could have thought possible. He grabbed Paul by the armpits and hauled him into the bathroom just in time.

Eager to cover up the sound of vomiting lest it trigger a chain reaction, John grabbed his guitar and started playing noisy chords. George looked woozily at John and frowned. "Aren't you going to go in there?" he asked.

"Nah. Give the lad a bit of privacy." Years and years of sharing rooms with Paul left John certain that Paul would want as few onlookers as possible. Losing control, even due to illness, was something Paul preferred to do in private.

George reached for his own instrument and played a plaintive melody to go with John's chords. Even plastered, George was more than a match for any guitarist John had ever heard. John watched George's fingers pull eloquent tunes out of the guitar. "That's quite good," he said with awe in his voice.

"Don't you forget it," hiccuped George, whose hands seemed blissfully independent from the fog in his brain.

"I won't." John took a deep breath. Fueled by liquor and genuine admiration, he said, "I can't believe I put off asking you to join the group just because you were a tyke of twelve."

"I was fourteen," protested George. "Almost fifteen."

"But you looked ten. And I was an arrogant sod--" He stopped when George snickered at the word "was," then continued. "And I might never have asked if it hadn't been for Paul's fucking stubbornness."

"I heard that," croaked Paul from the bathroom.

"Your FUCKING STUBBORNNESS, Paul, got us the best lead guitarist in the whole damn world, and I don't care who hears me say it!"

At that interesting point in the night's conversation, a crash of thunder directly overhead was followed by all the lights going out.

Ringo came out of the bathroom, holding his cigarette lighter aloft. "Where'd Brian put the candles, then?"

John scrabbled on the nightstand and came up with a cylinder that he hoped was a candle. "Here, try this."

"Make sure it's a candle and not a condom," Paul called out.

"I can tell the difference, son, even if you couldn't," John replied as he took Ringo's lighter and put the flame to the wick. The candle sputtered and for a horrible moment John thought it wasn't going to light up, but eventually the flame shone clear and strong.

"What're you going to put it in?" George asked.

John blinked. Surely he wasn't going to have to sit here holding it until the damned thing burned to nothingness.

"Here, let me." Ringo took the candle, tipped it sideways so that some of the wax ran around the lip of an empty scotch bottle, then held the bottom of the candle in the warm wax until it set. He repeated this with two other candles.

George whistled through his teeth. "Impressive, that."

"Now our cheap motel looks like a cheap Italian restaurant," Ringo chuckled. "So much better."

It actually was better. The room was bathed with a warm, golden glow instead of incandescent white electric light. John picked up one of the makeshift candle holders and shuffled into the bathroom to check on Paul.

"Can you see all right, Macca?" he asked. Paul was leaning with his cheek against the rim of the toilet, breathing shallowly.

"Wish I couldn't," was all Paul was able to say before he choked and began vomiting again.

"Easy, Paul, it's okay, I've got you, I've got you," John crooned as he wrapped one arm around Paul's chest and stroked his hair with the other. The contents of the toilet were mostly clear, meaning that Paul was probably near the end of whatever had made him sick. John flushed the toilet then put his hand on Paul's forehead. It was warm but not as bad as before. "That's better," John said. He reached up to the sink and pulled down a tube of toothpaste - probably George's, because it smelled strongly of the peppermint he favored - and squeezed a bit onto Paul's index finger. "Scrub a bit, get the taste out of your mouth."

Silently, Paul complied, then his body went lax and he laid his head in John's lap.

"That's him done for," George said from the doorway. He set his candle on the sink and sat down next to John, putting one hand in Paul's hair and the other on John's shoulder. "If only the world knew what larks it was, being a Beatle."

John chuckled. "We've had better nights."

"And worse ones. Like in Hamburg, where you and Paul and Pete played Olympic scorekeepers while that ginger bird..." George broke off, clearly embarrassed at the memory of losing his virginity while his bandmates cheered him on.

"Oh, I don't know, I quite enjoyed that," John said with a little leer.

George shook his head and leaned against the wall. John's shoulder felt cold without George's touch, and Paul whimpered a little at the loss of the caressing fingers. John took over, absent-mindedly tousling Paul's dark hair.

Ringo entered a few moments later. "Room for one more?"

"Of course," John said, "if you don't mind sitting in the tub."

"I don't, actually." Ringo clambered in and set his candle on the edge of the bathtub. He stretched out and folded his arms behind his head. "We only have the three candles, so maybe we should blow two out and save 'em."

John puffed out George's and his own candles, then pulled Paul's head into a more comfortable position on his lap. George's head tipped back and his breathing deepened.

"Guess it's just the two of us still conscious," Ringo whispered.

"I'm conscious," mumbled Paul.

"Me, too." George's voice was barely audible as he relaxed further, nearly hitting his head on the plumbing beneath the sink.

"Hey, Ringo, don't let him tip over," John said.

Ringo held out his hand to George. "C'mere, lad. More room over by me."

George scooted to the edge of the tub and put his head down on the pile of towels. He shifted a couple of times, grumbling wordlessly. Ringo rolled his eyes at John then moved one hand down to George's head, petting him like a puppy. "The youth today just can't hold their liquor," Ringo quipped, but John could hear the affection in his voice.

John cocked his head, listening for the storm but not hearing anything. "I think that's the eye passing over us now," he said. "So it's halfway done."

"Good. I've had about enough of this storm business." Ringo's eyes, silver in the muted candlelight, were focused on John. "Listen, Johnny, did I stick my foot in it, earlier, talking about my mother in front of you and Paul?"

John's throat tightened. "Nah," he said, wanting to mean it, but he could tell that Ringo wasn't fooled.

"Okay, I'll be more careful from now on." Ringo waggled his eyebrows to let John know that he hadn't fallen for his attempt at obfuscation.

Nodding in appreciation, John turned his gaze down to Paul's face. "It's funny, how Paul hears music so perfectly, how he remembers every note after hearing it just once, but he can't remember his mum's voice. I can't imagine forgetting Julia's, but I suppose I will, eventually." His voice felt thick as he continued. "I mean, I don't really remember Uncle George's, and sometimes I'm not even sure I can remember Stuart's, except for the old recordings. And someday they won't play anymore, and then his voice will be gone."

"Steady on," Ringo said, reaching out for John even though they were sitting too far apart to touch. He settled for putting the last remnants of scotch within John's reach.

The hurricane's eye was past them and the storm began anew, lashing the windows with rain and shaking the whole building with wind. John grabbed the bottle and swallowed the last of the amber liquid before he started talking again.

"How can someone you love just...disappear, like that? Like they never existed? Who's gonna be left in ten years, in fifty years, to remember Stuart's voice, to remember him, to remember Julia?"

George raised his head, blinking slowly. John felt George's fingers wrap gently around his wrist as he said, "God will remember, John. He'll remember all of us."

"Is that the same God who gave Stuart a brain aneurism? The same God who put a cop in a car he didn't know how to drive so that he could kill my mother? Why should I trust a God who takes everyone I love away from me?" He knew he was shocking George with his words, George whose childlike faith in higher powers never wavered, but John's heart was throbbing in his chest and the words spilled from his mouth as the hot, stinging tears spilled from his eyes. "Everyone I love leaves me," he cried. "Everyone I love fucking dies, that's why I don't love anyone, why I can't love anyone, because I don't want them to fucking DIE!"

John heard himself sobbing harshly as Paul sat up and threw his arms around him. "Johnny, it's okay, love, it's okay."

"Don't!" John yelled, trying to pull away. The panic that seized him clutched his chest so that he could barely breathe. He started scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Don't you see? If you love me then I'll love you and you'll die, just like the rest of them!"

"You can't stop me from loving you." Paul's voice was still raspy and weak but his embrace remained firm. "And I'm not going anywhere."

"Me, neither," chimed Ringo from the bathtub.

"We're none of us leaving you, so you can feel free to love us as much as you want." George's voice was as tearful as John's as he sat behind him and wrapped his arm around John's chest. "You're not getting rid of us that easy, Lennon."

The lights flickered then came back on. All four men winced at the sudden burst of cold fluorescence. George staggered to his feet and batted at the bathroom switch until that light went out.

The insanity of the situation wasn't lost on John. He was sitting on the floor of a loo in a cheap motel during a thunderstorm, in his pyjamas, with the rest of his band trying to console him while he had a drunken breakdown.

It was actually a good metaphor for their lives, when he stopped to think about it.

The light coming in from the bedroom was strong enough that he could take a good look at his friends: Ringo, always as unwaveringly steady as his drumbeat, loyal George with his fine mind and extraordinary patience, and Paul, whose brilliance more than compensated for his exasperating perfectionism.

"How'd I get so bleedin' lucky as to end up with the three of you?" John asked as he smiled at each of his bandmates in turn.

"Dunno how lucky you'll feel when you have Typhoid Paulie in your bed," George declared around a yawn. Paul shot him a dirty look but he was fighting back laughter.

"C'mon, up with you." John stood, wincing at the pain in his lower back from sitting on hard tile, and gave Paul a hand up. "What about--"

George silenced him with a finger on his lips. John and Paul looked at Ringo, who had fallen asleep in the bathtub. "I'll get him settled," George whispered. "You two go on, get some sleep."

John walked Paul over to one of the beds and pulled the bedspread back for him. As Paul climbed in and John covered him up, they shared a tiny smile. John could tell from the way Paul's eyes softened that he was thinking about his mother, and if he was thinking about her then he was also remembering Julia and worrying about John.

"Daft lad," John whispered fondly as he started to get in behind Paul.

Paul stopped John with a hand on his wrist. "If Ringo's gonna sleep in the tub, maybe you should share with George. You don't need my germs."

"Better your germs than George's bony knees." John pried Paul's fingers loose and patted his hand before settling in behind him. "Now, be a good boy and let me have my beauty sleep. Or maybe a beauty coma, that'd do me more good."

Chuckling, Paul burrowed deeper under the covers.

George padded barefoot through the room to get a blanket and pillow for Ringo. John could see him over Paul's shoulder as he lifted Ringo's head ever so gently to put the pillow beneath it, and then draped the blanket over his sleeping form. George picked up the candle and used it to light his way back to bed once he turned out the bedroom lights. When he got into his bed, he leaned over, mouthed "Good night" to John and Paul, then blew out the candle.

The storm had died down to a lulling fall of heavy rain. Moonlight streamed through the window, a gentle silvery glow that lit up Paul's face when he turned over to look at John.

"Your voice," he whispered. "No one's ever going to forget your voice. Not in fifty years, or a hundred. It's gonna live forever."

"Hush, you'll wake Ringo," John admonished, but he pulled Paul into a fierce hug. He felt Paul begin to relax into sleep, his skin damp with breaking fever. Maybe John would catch his cold but he would not push Paul away.

Tomorrow night, John thought, when the storm had washed the sky and polished the stars, he'd take Paul outside and show him their mothers' star, Mary Julia, and perhaps Paul's long-opened wound could begin to heal.

Perhaps John's would as well, and at last their old tears would come to an end.

*** END ***