#mention of gun violence

[ollieofthebeholder]

And If Thou Wilt, Forget: a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 28: Hope dead lives nevermore

[CLICK]

[EVERYTHING IS VAGUELY MUFFLED]

[CAR ENGINE RUMBLING, SLOWING DOWN, AND THEN SHUTTING OFF WITH A CLUNK]

GERRY

What the fuck…?

…Oh, God, no.

[CAR DOOR CREAKS OPEN, THEN SLAMS SHUT]

[VARIOUS CROWD SOUNDS, PUNCTUATED BY THE OCCASIONAL RADIO SQUEAK]

[FOOTSTEPS CRUNCHING ON GRAVEL]

GERRY

Excuse me! Hey, excuse me!

FEMALE VOICE

You need to back off. This is a restricted area right now.

GERRY

No, wait, look, I—I got a phone call, I’m—someone called Roy DeSoto called me? To…pick up my…partner…what the fuck is going on here?

FEMALE VOICE

Oh, yeah, he’s with the medics. Across the street over there. One of those two tents.

Should be good to go if they were calling you. Just don’t go in. And don’t get any closer.

GERRY

…Yeah. Sure.

Thanks, Officer…Hussein.

[FOOTSTEPS GO FROM GRAVEL TO PAVEMENT TO DRY GRASS, GETTING FASTER AS THEY GO]

MALE VOICE

Whoa, hey, sir—sir, you can’t be here—

GERRY

DeSoto—are you Roy DeSoto?

DESOTO

That’s me. Oh—wait, are you, uh, Delano? Jareth Delano? Tim Stoker’s point of contact?

GERRY

Yeah. He—h-how is he? What happened?

DESOTO

He’ll be fine. He’s doing good. Damn sight better than the other guy. (Grumbles) At least he’s not being too difficult.

He’s probably going to be sore for a while. Bandages need to stay on for at least the next twenty-four hours before changing them. We’ve called in a scrip for an antibiotic cream, but he might need help with that. We gave him some painkillers, too, and there’s a scrip in for that as well. Probably want to check in with his regular doctor to see how things are healing up.

Oh, and make sure he gets as much fresh air as possible for the next few days, too. Drinks a lot of water. And if you want to get some of those ice lollies for him to suck on, that might not be a bad thing, because he’s probably going to have a sore throat for a bit.

But he’s good to go. We don’t really have a reason to keep him anymore, and he says he doesn’t want to go to hospital, so you can take him home.

GERRY

…Thanks. Where is he?

DESOTO

Right in there. I—

DISTANT VOICE

Roy!

DESOTO

Coming!

Yeah, right in there, go ahead.

GERRY

Thanks.

[RUNNING FOOTSTEPS]

[SLIGHTLY MORE MEASURED FOOTSTEPS]

[DEEP BREATH]

[RATTLE OF PLASTIC]

TIM

(Tiredly) Hi, babe.

GERRY

(Horrified) Oh, Tim.

[FABRIC RUSTLES]

[STIFLED GROAN FROM TIM]

GERRY

Sorry, sorry!

Jesus. What happened?

Also, if you ever call me like that out of the clear blue sky again—

TIM

I know. I’m sorry.

Look, let’s…let’s get out of here. I can tell you everything when we get home.

GERRY

Okay, but one question before we leave.

TIM

Sure.

GERRY

Why is your belt around your head?

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

JON

Just have a seat, Tim, I—

Oh. Elias?

ELIAS

Yes. Tim has…left us, I’m afraid.

[CHAIR SCRAPES AND CLATTERS TO THE GROUND]

JON

What?!

ELIAS

I hadn’t seen him before I came down here. Not since he was taken into quarantine. But when you asked for him, of course, I went to find him, and when I couldn’t, I spoke to the paramedics.

They confirmed he was gone.

JON

(Voice tight) What happened?

ELIAS

Apparently they called his partner to come and get him. Once he was released from quarantine, there was no reason to keep him on the premises, and the police didn’t feel the need to speak to him. I believe they said he left an hour…ninety minutes ago.

[JON EXHALES HEAVILY, AND THERE IS A SOFT THUMP, LIKE HE’S SUDDENLY BRACING HIMSELF AGAINST A DESK]

Jon, are you all right?

JON

So he’s gone…home.

ELIAS

Yes, I—ah. I apologize, I didn’t think about how I was phrasing that.

Yes, Tim is alive and…about as well as you are, I suppose. Perhaps not. He did have to be in quarantine a fair bit longer than you were—I’m not certain as to why—but he’s been released.

JON

And he just left?

ELIAS

I’m sure he didn’t know you needed to speak with him. Why would he have run if he had?

[A FEW BEATS OF SILENCE]

JON

Does he know?

ELIAS

That Martin found…? I doubt it.

You can talk to him later, Jon. Not tonight. He’s likely as tired and sore as you are.

JON

I’m fine. And I don’t want this to wait.

ELIAS

Well, I suppose your choices are to call him—

JON

I need it on record.

ELIAS

—or to go and speak with him personally.

I gave you a copy of his CV, did I not? I believe it has his address at the top.

JON

(Unconvincingly) Yes. Yes, of—of course.

I’ll, I’ll do that. Thank you.

ELIAS

Right. In that case, are we done here?

JON

No. I still need to talk to the others.

Send Sasha in, then.

ELIAS

…Of course.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

TIM

Yeah, looks like it’s got something in it, all right.

GERRY

I don’t remember grabbing it. I don’t even remember having it.

TIM

It’s mine. I thought I brought it to work with me today, but…well, guess I was a bit distracted this morning. I must’ve dropped it in your coat pocket by mistake.

Good thing, too. With everything that happened, I’d probably have lost it.

GERRY

Let me go walk the dog while you relax and then you can tell me all about it.

TIM

When’s the last time he went out?

GERRY

Just before the paramedic called me. I couldn’t get hold of you and I was having trouble concentrating.

Figured going for a bit of a walk might keep me distracted enough that I didn’t storm the Institute looking for you.

TIM

Then he should be fine for a bit before he needs to go out again.

I know he’s back in the bedroom. I also know you’re worried about him jumping on the holes, but, honestly, I’m so doped up right now I wouldn’t feel it if you jabbed a sword into my chest.

GERRY

You mean like this?

[TIM GIVES OUT A YELL OF PAIN]

[BARKING FROM DOWN THE HALL]

TIM

(A bit breathlessly) Okay, I might have slightly overestimated the efficacy of medical-grade narcotics, but…

GERRY

Sorry.

[SOFT KISS]

I’ll let him out. He’ll probably be gentle with you. Then we can…talk.

TIM

Sounds good. Thanks, babe.

[FOOTSTEPS DOWN THE HALL]

[TIM SIGHS HEAVILY]

[TOENAILS CLICKING ON HARDWOOD GETTING GRADUALLY LOUDER, JINGLING OF TAGS]

[SQUEAK OF SOFA SPRINGS]

[ENTHUSIASTIC LICKING]

TIM

Hey, yeah, good to see you, too. Yeah, I’m okay, I’m okay. Ow—ow—easy there, boy—(laughing) Okay, okay, enough. Enough.

Rowlf, down.

[LICKING STOPS]

[SOFA SPRINGS SQUEAK AGAIN]

GERRY

Hey, budge over, mutt, I want to sit down, too.

Actually, don’t bother. Sit up, Tim.

[SOUNDS OF SHIFTING, MORE SOFA SPRINGS SQUEAKING]

[TWIN SIGHS]

GERRY

This okay?

TIM

Yeah. Yeah, this is good.

GERRY

What happened? You called me in the middle of the workday, yelled that you loved me, and immediately hung up. Tried calling you back and went from not getting an answer to the connection not even going through, and the next thing I hear is six hours later from a blocked number saying you’re fine, but they don’t trust you to leave on your own. And then I get to the Institute and…

I saw the EDC truck. I’m not stupid. The Corruption attacked, didn’t it?

TIM

Long story short, yeah.

GERRY

And…short story long?

TIM

Anything by Ernest Hemingway.

[GERRY GIVES A LONG, DRAWN OUT, EXASPERATED GROAN]

GERRY

I’m serious. If ‘the Corruption attacked’ is the—what’s it called? The Cliff’s Notes version—at least give me the Readers Digest Condensed Version.

TIM

…I think the Web pushed the Corruption to attack.

GERRY

…

…Okay, you’re going to have to give me the full novel here, Stoker.

TIM

(A bit teasingly) You want my statement?

GERRY

Do I look Eye-aligned to you?

TIM

Yes.

GERRY

(Brief chuckle) Fair enough.

TIM

(Seriously) It was around lunchtime. Sasha and Martin were both out, and I was just packing up to go myself. Lou—you remember Lou, my old boss from Velvet and Crow?

GERRY

The one you said went to school with Gertrude?

TIM

Yeah. She—fuck, I’m going to have to reach out to her, she probably thinks I blew her off. Today’s her birthday, so she asked if I’d meet her for lunch. I was just getting ready to tell Jon I was going when I heard this…thumping noise from the Archivist’s office. I went in, and there was Jon, standing by the wreckage of the shelves. He said he’d been trying to kill a spider and the whole thing just…collapsed.

GERRY

And that’s why you think the Web was involved? Hate to break it to you, Tim, but spiders do occasionally turn up for innocuous reasons. Maybe it was just lost.

TIM

Believe me, I thought the same thing. But he described it as a “nasty, bulbous thing”—and, okay, Jon super hates spiders, which makes sense since he’s definitely been marked pretty deeply by the Web—

GERRY

How do you know that?

TIM

Please. After almost three years, if I can’t pick out a mark that obvious, you and Gertrude did a shitty job of training me.

But yeah, I guess there was the possibility Jon was exaggerating, either because his fear made it seem bigger and nastier than it was or because he needed it to be big and nasty so I wouldn’t get mad at him for killing a harmless little lint speck. You know how it goes. Except when I got closer and looked, I realized the shelves had made a hole in the wall. And I could smell it—that dry, musty, earthy smell I last smelled, or at least last smelled that strongly, when I went to Martin’s place.

I’m sure I’ve been smelling it around the Institute, too, but it just faded into the background after a while. This was intense.

GERRY

Are you telling me there were worms in the walls? I thought the building was solid stone.

TIM

It was. It is.

We thought the wall he went through was an exterior wall. Nope. It was just plasterboard, and…behind it was a space. Not just a gap of a few inches to allow for wiring or whatever, but actual tunnels. Deep ones. I realized later it was probably the remains of the old Millbank Prison.

GERRY

(Surprised) There actually are tunnels under the Institute? Fuck me. I thought the old bat was joking.

TIM

What? When?

GERRY

Not long after she told me about the rituals, right around the time I thought I found Leitner. She caught me snooping through her papers—

TIM

Seems to be a habit with you.

GERRY

Shut up. She asked if I’d found anything interesting, and I said I was looking for her nefarious plans…she said she wouldn’t keep those with her papers, and I made a joke about hidden underground tunnels, and she said that oh, yes, there was a whole network of tunnels under the Institute that she’d conveniently forgotten to mention. Her tone of voice sounded like she was joking, but…

TIM

(Slowly) At the time, maybe she was. I think you maybe got her curious, and that’s how she found them.

She definitely knew about them. I’m sure of it. It’s why those shelves were where they were. That was where the plasterboard was thinnest, she must have known if anything broke in it would be there. Wanted an early detection system, I guess.

GERRY

So what happened after you smelled the Corruption in the tunnels? Please tell me you didn’t go down looking for it.

TIM

No, it came up looking for us. Jon poked at the hole and made it a bit bigger, and the next thing I knew the office was teeming with worms.

Martin was back by then. I managed to get him and Jon back into that secure Document Storage room, the climate-controlled one, you know? Not easily, mind you. Jon was insistent on bringing the recorders along, I’m still not sure what that was about. Not like the tape would have survived if he hadn’t. We made it, but he got bitten on the way, so I had to get that out…Sasha was still out there, though, and, well, I was worried about the worms. So I went out to fight them off. Got Sasha out of the Archives, told her to get help, and I wound up in the Archivist’s office.

I, uh…they were close. Really close. The worms, I mean. I wound up falling into some case boxes that turned out to have fire extinguishers in them, so I was attacking the worms, but…

GERRY

These would be the extinguishers that are useless for the kind of fire you expect at the Institute? The ones filled with carbon dioxide?

TIM

Yeah. They do work on the worms, though.

GERRY

Most things die when you suck the oxygen out of their lungs.

Speaking of, do you want some water or something? Medic said you’ll probably have a sore throat for a while, I assume because you were breathing carbon dioxide.

TIM

I’m okay for now, but…yeah. That’s what was going on. Got a little lightheaded, too. But I did realize I needed to get out of there somehow.

That’s when I called you.

GERRY

Oh, good. I’m so glad that was on your list of priorities.

TIM

Making sure you got to hear my voice one last time, just in case I didn’t make it out of there alive? Yeah, that was pretty much top of my list.

GERRY

Okay, now I have to kill you.

[TIM LAUGHS]

I’m not joking, Stoker. Do you have any idea what it would have done to me if that had been the last communication I ever had with you?

You didn’t even give me a chance to say it back.

TIM

…I know. I’m sorry.

I guess it was a little selfish. I was going to do something I knew was dangerous, and I wanted to hear your voice one last time, just in case I never heard another one.

Plus, you know, oxygen deprivation. Wasn’t exactly thinking the clearest.

GERRY

I’ll give you that one.

TIM

Anyway, I went down. God, it was like a maze down there. Down was up, up was down, left and right meant just about nothing…and I know what you’re thinking. I couldn’t sense the Spiral. Or the Buried, for that matter, so that was good. It was just…confusing.

If it’s the remains of Millbank Prison, that makes sense, really. Smirke designed it, and he obviously knew about the Fourteen, so he might have drawn on elements of the Spiral without actually…invoking it. Probably not to draw it. Probably just to make it confusing for any prisoners who managed to get out of their cells. The guards would have had maps and directions and all that sort of thing, but a convict making a break for freedom? They could wander for ages and not find the way out.

There weren’t as many worms down there, though. Not at first. Most of them must’ve been up in the Archives, which was not comforting, but I figured I’d worry about getting out and then I could worry about destroying Jane Prentiss and her filth. And then…I found a room full of them.

GERRY

(Quietly) Alive or dead?

TIM

Alive. Alive and building.

They were…Ger, I think I’m right, I think that was a Corruption ritual. Or at least it was meant to be one. The worms were stacking themselves together, kind of twisting around one another, and…it looked like they were making a doorway. I can only assume it was for the Creeping Rot to enter our world.

GERRY

You stopped it, though, right?

TIM

Oh, yeah. I pumped two and a half canisters of CO2 into that room. Nothing was getting out of there alive.

I wandered a bit after that and eventually came to a wall that looked different from the rest, like it was thinner. And I could hear voices on the other side—

GERRY

Voices?

TIM

—that I recognized as Jon and Martin’s. So I broke through the wall, and yeah, there was Document Storage. It’s on the same wall as the Archivist’s office.

The worms were getting pretty bad up there, so I figured my first priority was to get them out of there and somewhere safe. I reckoned if all the worms were in the Archives, they’d be all right in the tunnels. Jon was hurt, though, and his leg was slowing him down, and…there were enough worms in the tunnels. A wave of them came at us, and we lost—lost track of Martin.

I, I don’t know if he—I don’t know if he got out, Gerry. I don’t know if he found his way to the surface, or if he’s still trapped down there, or if something else got him or—

GERRY

Easy, babe. Easy.

[ROWLF WHINES SOFTLY]

TIM

Sorry. I’m good. I’m good.

[DEEP BREATH]

Anyway, we, um, turns out breaking through the walls isn’t the only way into the Archives from those tunnels. There’s a trapdoor. A big one. Jon and I found it and…I should have made him stay in the tunnels. I tried to make him stay in the tunnels, but Jesus Christ, we thought Gertrude was stubborn? Jon makes the Alps look easy to shift. So we went up together.

And Jane Prentiss was waiting for us.

GERRY

Shit. How’d you fight her off?

TIM

I didn’t. The fire suppressant system finally kicked in. Last thing I remember before I blacked out was the screaming.

GERRY

Jon?

TIM

The worms. I guess. Or maybe it was the dying scream of the ritual fizzling out, I dunno.

Just…that’s going to be haunting my dreams for a while, I think. Thousands of tiny things without mouths, screaming for a god that isn’t listening.

GERRY

And now that’s going to haunt my dreams, thanks.

TIM

You can’t imagine it unless you were there. Trust me. Whatever you’re thinking…it was a million times worse.

GERRY

I can imagine quite a lot.

TIM

I know.

[SEVERAL LONG MOMENTS OF SILENCE]

GERRY

You stopped her, Tim. Even if you’re not the one who kicked off the overhead system, you slowed her down enough that it could work, and you put Sasha in the position that she could do that.

You did good.

TIM

Yeah.

I’m just…I’m worried. About Martin. About Jon.

GERRY

Jon’s fine. Or at least fine enough to be a problem. When I picked you up, the paramedic was grumbling about “the other guy” being difficult, and I assume that was Jon.

TIM

That’s…good. I tried to take the brunt of it for him, but there’s only so much surface area to my body, you know?

GERRY

I am, in fact, quite aware of the surface area of your body.

[TIM LAUGHS]

You’re not worried about Sasha?

TIM

No. She got out. She’s probably fine.

And she’s short enough that the worms probably looked right over her.

[GERRY LAUGHS]

I mean, I am worried about her, but…less than the others.

GERRY

Gertrude’s going to be proud of you.

TIM

I hope so.

And I fucking hope she gets back soon, because if she doesn’t, I’m going to have to make a call myself.

GERRY

On whether to tell the others about…everything?

TIM

Yup.

I don’t think knowing would have kept them safe. Sure as fuck didn’t do jack shit for me. But going forward…God. Are they going to make smarter decisions if they know that stuff is literally trying to kill them?

GERRY/TIM (SIMULTANEOUSLY)

No.

[THEY BOTH LAUGH THIS TIME]

TIM

Really, I think…I think if I’m going to tell anyone, it would need to be Jon. I just…don’t know if I should.

GERRY

Why Jon? Why not Martin or Sasha?

TIM

Jon is…until Gertrude gets back, he’s the acting Archivist. I haven’t been calling him that, and I don’t think he’s noticed or really thought about it. But he’s still…

He’s at least nominally in charge. He’s the one calling the shots, or at least he should be. And I can’t help but wonder if he’d make different decisions if he knew everything.

GERRY

…I mean…

On the one hand, probably? If he knows about the Fourteen, if he knows Jane Prentiss wasn’t just an isolated thing, if he knows what’s going on behind everything, he might make different decisions. About research, about how to run the Archives, about what he should be doing. It’s highly likely.

On the other hand, I think the question you should actually be asking is if he’d make better decisions if he knew everything.

TIM

Yeah, that’s a good point.

He’s…curious. Too curious for his own damn good. And I know he makes bad decisions. He wouldn’t have got hurt today if he hadn’t gone back for the tape recorder—it slowed him getting out of the office, and then he dropped it on his way to Document Storage and that’s why he got bit. And he…focuses too much on the immediate problem and not long-term solutions.

Like the carbon dioxide system. I don’t know how he talked Elias into that. It doesn’t actually work on the kind of fires we’re likely to get in the Archives. I mean, it comes—came—out cold, and sinks to the bottom of the room, so that’s not the issue, but it doesn’t go deep enough to put out fires on, say, paper. And if it dissipates, but the actual source of the ignition isn’t removed, the fire’s quite likely to flare up again.

All of which he would have known if he’d done just a little bit of research, or put any thought into it. Collect the extinguishers, sure, but replacing the whole system? That was stupid. Now we’re safe from the Corruption—or specifically from the worms, which aren’t going to be a problem anymore—but we’re at risk from the Desolation.

GERRY

And if he’d known about both? Would he have done that? Got the extinguishers and not pushed about the overall system?

TIM

…No. No, I don’t think he would have. I think he’d have said to get the CO2 system and supplement with the ABC extinguishers rather than the other way around.

I’ll grant you that we probably wouldn’t have survived if he had done it the other way around, but…

GERRY

But Gertrude wouldn’t have.

TIM

Gertrude wouldn’t have involved Elias at all if she could help it. Also, I know she was trying to get the ABC system installed, because that’s what I gave her the recommendation for.

GERRY

Yeah, true.

So. What are you going to do about Jon?

TIM

Not sure yet. Luckily, I think I’ve got time to work that out.

GERRY

Did the paramedics tell you how long it’s going to be before you can go back to work?

TIM

Not their call. I’m going to have to go to a regular doc and get checked out. Probably tomorrow, but…fuck it, I might wait until Thursday or Friday and rest tomorrow.

I’m thinking probably a few weeks. Some of these holes are deep.

(Groans) Aaaaand the painkillers are starting to wear off.

GERRY

Hang on. I’ll go make tea and get the bottle out.

TIM

Thanks, Ger.

[FOOTSTEPS FADING INTO THE DISTANCE]

[FAINT SOUND OF RUNNING WATER]

[TIM SIGHS HEAVILY]

[SUDDEN JANGLE OF TAGS]

TIM

What? What is it, boy?

[KNOCKING AT THE DOOR]

[ROWLF BARKS EXCITEDLY]

[TOENAILS CLATTER ON FLOOR, TAGS JINGLING]

TIM

Ow! Christ—

GERRY

(From the other room) Tim, you stay right there. I’ll get it.

TIM

I’m—

GERRY

Don’t say you’re fine.

[FOOTSTEPS ALONG THE HALLWAY]

GERRY (DISTANTLY)

Get back, you menace. Rowlf, heel.

[DOOR CREAKS]

Can I help you? This is a private residence.

[FAINT, INDISTINCT VOICE]

Who’s asking?

[FAINT VOICE EVIDENTLY REPLIES]

Oh—yeah, yeah, come on in. Don’t mind the dog. Rowlf!

MARTIN (DISTANTLY)

It’s okay. I like dogs. And we’ve met before.

TIM

(Surprised) Martin?

GERRY

Timothy Rodolfo Anthony Stoker, you keep your ass on that sofa.

TIM

(Groans) Yes, Dad.

GERRY

Have a seat. I’m making tea.

MARTIN

No, no, it’s okay, it’s—I-I’m not staying long. I just…

I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Jon was, um, he said you left before he could get your statement.

TIM

He was—never mind.

I’m okay. Bit sore, but I’ll live, you know? Partner’s just a bit overprotective.

MARTIN

Right, right, yeah, that’s—you know, I don’t think you’ve, um, you haven’t mentioned his name before?

GERRY (CALLING FROM THE OTHER ROOM)

It’s Gerry.

MARTIN

Oh, yeah. Okay. Yeah.

S-sorry, I—I shouldn’t have—I, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.

And…well, to say I was sorry. I—I didn’t mean to leave you behind, I—

TIM

What? No. No, no, no. Martin, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you.

I should be the one apologizing. I—fuck it.

[SOFA SPRINGS SQUEAK OVER MILD SOUNDS OF PROTEST FROM MARTIN]

[FABRIC RUSTLES]

I’m sorry, kiddo. I shouldn’t have let you out of my sight. I was trying to get you both out safely, but…

MARTIN

You did, though. You—we’d both be dead if it weren’t for you.

Thank you. I, I don’t think I said that while we were in the tunnels, but…thank you. For looking out for us.

TIM

Hey, that’s what I’m here for.

You did good, too, Marto. You found your way out. You didn’t get bit, did you?

MARTIN

No, no, no. No, I—I didn’t see many worms. Actually, (nervous laugh) that worried me a bit, you know? Like if there weren’t any worms, I’d gone too far from the Institute. That’s what I told Jon.

I was just trying to find my way back, a-and then I heard the screams. And then I started finding all the withered worms in the tunnels, and that’s how I knew she—that Jane Prentiss was dead.

TIM

That’s…good to know, actually.

MARTIN

You didn’t know she was dead?

TIM

No, I did. She was looming right over me, and I sort of figured that was part of the screaming. I just didn’t think about the worms being…connected to her. Or part of her or whatever.

Anyway, I’m just glad you’re okay. What did you do, follow the worms out?

MARTIN

(Brief pause) Why didn’t I think of that? Stupid. Stupid. That would have been so much easier.

TIM

(Firmly) You’re not stupid.

MARTIN

Yeah, but I didn’t think to follow the obvious clue! I just, I just wandered, looking for a way out. I thought I found one—a-a door—but it turned out to just be a room.

TIM

Filled with dessicated worm corpses, right?

MARTIN

No. No, the worms didn’t…

Did, um—w-when did you leave?

TIM

Pretty much right after I got out of quarantine. I joked about itching a little with the paramedics and they kept me longer. Why?

MARTIN

Then you didn’t talk to anyone? Elias, maybe?

TIM

…About what?

MARTIN

O-oh. Um, um, you…you maybe want to sit down or—

TIM

Martin! Just say it, all right? What was in the room?

MARTIN

It—I-I found Gertrude Robinson.

TIM

(Exhales) So she was down there. I wondered…

MARTIN

Yeah. Sat on a wooden chair in the middle of the room. No worms. No cobwebs. Just…the dust and the cardboard boxes full of cassette tapes.

And an old corpse.

TIM

What?

MARTIN

I mean…it’s been more than a year, Tim. If it wasn’t so dry and dusty down there, I wouldn’t have recognized her, I don’t—

Tim? Tim, are you okay?

TIM

(Quietly) What happened to her?

MARTIN

…She was shot. Three times that I could see. In the chest.

TIM

…Jesus.

…

Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?

MARTIN

Yeah, I’m—I’m going back to my place.

I don’t know how long I’m going to stay there, honestly, but at least I know it’s safe now. And, um, Elias said we can take the rest of the week off.

I probably have to go back in tomorrow, though. The, the police want me to try and show them where her body is. I-I’m not sure I can find it again, but…

TIM

You’ve got my number. Call if you want company, okay?

MARTIN

I mean, I don’t think you’re in any fit state to go anywhere, but—sure, yeah, okay.

You’re sure you’re okay?

TIM

(Unconvincingly) Fit as a fiddle.

Go home and get some rest, okay, Marto? And…you did good today. Real good.

MARTIN

Thanks, Tim. You, too.

Bye, Rowlf.

[FOOTSTEPS ACROSS THE FLOOR, DOOR OPENING AND SHUTTING]

[SEVERAL SECONDS OF SILENCE]

GERRY

Tim?

TIM

“My heart has joined the Thousand, for my friend stopped running today.”

GERRY

What? Jon or Sasha?

TIM

…You didn’t hear any of that, did you?

GERRY

Just you asking Martin if—Tim. Tim, what’s wrong, what is it?

What happened?

TIM

…

…Gertrude’s dead.

GERRY

What?! Dead? Since when?

TIM

From what Martin said…Elias was right. She’s been dead this whole time. Someone shot her and left her in the tunnels under the Institute.

Along with—(Sudden realization) the tapes. Martin said she was surrounded by cardboard boxes full of tapes.

GERRY

(Softly) Oh, God.

[FABRIC RUSTLES]

[SQUEAK OF SOFA SPRINGS]

You are not going down there looking for them. Not in the shape you’re in. We’ll have to…we’ll figure out how to get them later.

TIM

They’re probably going to be in a police evidence locker for a while. Assuming they find her.

GERRY

Won’t be the first time I’ve broken into a police station. Probably won’t be the last.

[SEVERAL LONG MOMENTS OF SILENCE]

What are you thinking?

TIM

I’m thinking that answers the question of whether or not to say anything to Jon.

GERRY

…Okay, you’re going to have to run that one by me. How?

TIM

He must know more than he’s letting on. He’s got to have some idea about all this already.

Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just a power hungry idiot. I dunno. Doesn’t matter. I’m still not going to talk to him about all this, not yet.

GERRY

Why not?

TIM

Because right now, the best conclusion I can come to is that Jonathan Sims is the one who murdered Gertrude Robinson.

[CLICK]

[destielmemenews]

"Officials identified the man as 26-year-old Luigi Nicholas Mangione. He was born in Maryland and his last known residence was Honoloulou. He was arrested on firearms charges and taken in for questioning related to Thompson's death. He has not been charged with Thompson's killing at this time."

source 1

source 2

source 3

[incorrectbatfam]

Tim: Poison is a magic transmutation potion that turns people into corpses.

Damian: This knife is actually a magic wand.

Stephanie: Meet me in the Denny's parking lot for a wizard duel.

Jason, cocking a gun: Magic missile.

Dick: What the fuck is wrong with you people?

[stuhde]

i had shared what is happening in sudan on a long facebook post last night, but it virtually received almost little to no engagement or shares from the nearly 600 “friends” i have on the site.

this morning, my great-aunt was shot by the soldiers fighting for power, and God forbid, i lose more of my family members before eid this friday.

please read below to understand what is happening and how you can help my country. i hope the tumblr community can show more kindness than the lack of support and advocacy i’ve seen elsewhere.

يا رب اجعل هذا البلد آمناً 🇸🇩

the lack of awareness and advocacy from the African, Arab, and Muslim diaspora and the human rights community has been painful.

while Western media has done little to no coverage of the ongoing conflict in the capital city of my motherland, Sudan, it appears that the rest of the world also partakes in normalizing crimes and violence against SWANA people.

violence and war hurting the SWANA region are NOT ordinary occurrences — no one, regardless of race, creed, ethnicity, religion, and gender, should experience the unprecedented amount of violence that harms my two living grandmothers, aunts and uncles, and baby cousins who live in Khartoum.

your decision to ignore reading or educating and discussing with others about what is likely to be a civil war is complicity in viewing SWANA people as individuals who regularly experience conflict and are undeserving of help.

the silence is damaging, and it is up to us as privileged members of the diaspora (or individuals living in the Western world committed to human rights) to support the people of my country and their dream for a stable, democratically elected government.

what is happening in Sudan is a fight that started on April 15 between two competing forces for power — the Sudanese Army and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) — neither groups are representative of the needs of our people. The Sudan Army is loyal to the dictator, Omar Al-Bashir, and the RSF is responsible for the genocide in Darfur.

with both power struggles backed by different Arab and Gulf nations, the two parties have been fighting for power for the last few years. While they worked together to try and end the people’s revolution, they lost. however, they are now in a constant power play of who will get to rule the nation.

this all means that war is NOT a reflection of my country — violence does not represent the SWANA people. Sudan is a nation of beautiful culture, strong women, intellectual and influential Islamic scholars, poets, and youth at the front lines of the revolution. we are a people committed to a region of peace for ourselves and the rest of the Ummah.

my family and the rest of Sudan’s innocent civilians are at the most risk, with many currently without drinking water, food to eat, electricity, and complete blockage to any mosques during the final nights of Ramadan, our holiest month of the year.

i ask that you please keep Sudan and our people in your prayers — donate to the Sudan Red Crescent or a mutual aid GoFund Me, email your representatives if you live in a country that can put pressure on either competing force of power, discuss this with your family and friends, and please do not forget to think about SWANA people — our brothers and sisters in Syria, Yemen, Lebanon, and many others need our love and support.

الردة_مستحيلة ✊🏾

#KeepEyesOnSudan

[writing-for-whoever-listens]

Dark Romance Prompts:

"I don't think it's smart to go with them." "Good thing I'm not asking for your opinion, then."

"I love you." "That's all? Darling, I would destroy the world for you if you asked, love doesn't begin to cover it."

"Stop! You're killing them!" "They hurt you, it's what they deserve."

"Should we be doing this? What if we get caught?" "I won't let that happen."

"I need you to be safe. Please be safe." "I'll be fine."

"I can't exist without you." "I'm sure you could." "I would cease to exist if you left."

"What are you doing? It's late." "I'm planning out our deaths."

"You mean everything to me." "I love you, too."

"How did you find me?" "I memorized the streets you frequent in case something like this happened."

"I want you to stay here, with me." "I..." "It would mean so much to me if you stayed."

"I don't want you to touch me!" "You'll get over that soon enough."

"You expect me to care about you when you kidnapped me? Go to hell!" "It was for your own good, it had to be done!"

"I keep thinking about it. The kiss, I mean." "Do you want to do it again?"

"Put the gun down, sweetheart. You don't even know how to shoot it." "I'm about to find out."

"I didn't mean to hurt you, I'm sorry. Please, talk to me."

"They're not a bad person! Just because they aren't a saint doesn't mean they're the devil!"

"I want to stay." "Do you mean that? You tried that last time, and it didn't end well." "I mean it."

"Who was that?" "Oh. A friend of mine." "Just a friend?"

"Isn't this wrong?" "What? Breaking the law? Depends on if you find it wrong. I don't."

"At least try to look like you're having fun." "With you? Fat chance."

i'm not a big reader in this genre, so i hope these are what you wanted, anon! it was fun to do <3

[draw-the-squad-like-this]

Draw your OCs like this

[aka-indulgence]

Thoughts? Thoughts you said? Dealer thoughts? 👀 pls?

YES THANK YOU FOR ASKING HHH

(CW: portrayal of gun and violence + random character’s death)

He seems like a guy with a twisted taste for entertainment. Obviously he doesn’t care for human life, regularly dealing with people who gamble their lives for money (or not), you wouldn’t think he’d care about… anyone.

But he cares about you.

He would’ve just finished his last game for the night. The player died on the last round, no defibrillators or blood transfusions left, transported to the dealer’s version of the afterlife. He had 2 defibrillator charges left. He’s been shot about 7 times, but he’s not dead, just on the brink of death- another weekend night for him. He’s not in the mood to die tonight, is all, and he makes his way down to the club where the music blares, the lights are flashing neon colors and the air smells like booze and smoke.

He’s delighted to see you- he’s favorite server in the club. People quickly move away from him- even club regulars who’ve seen his face- are still unnerved by the large man(?) with the crooked teeth and hollow eyes. And even if his face didn’t scare them the shotgun slung over his back certainly would. His delight soon sours when he sees you’re not alone at the bar. Why are you sitting there in the first place? Looks like one of the club-goers caught you, having pulled you to the seat beside him. He’s uncomfortable close, leaning into your space. That alone is enough for him to reach for his shotgun. But even worse…

While you’re distracted, the guy putting his hand on your lap (something the dealer already wants to shoot him for,) the guy reaches over to your drink… and slips some powder into it.

He’s going to have his face blown off.

He crosses the floor, disregarding the club goers and knocking them down like bowling pins.

As you’re being pressured to have a drink (“hey c’mon babe, I went and bought it for you…”), a large arm slams heavily next to you on the bar, calloused hand gripping the glass so hard it’s shaking. The guy jumps back, having seen the face of horror just above your head.

“Hey angel, mind if I have this?” He says, voice strained. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He proceeds to pick up the glass as if to drink, but shatters it against the bar instead.

People stop dancing. The music is still going.

“Hey w-what the hell man?!” the guy stares at the Dealer, as if he didn’t know what he was just doing.

The Dealer shuts him up real quick when he cocks his shotgun. He’s holding the shotgun in front of you, with his arms boxing you in.

“You look familiar. Never seen you upstairs though. Too bad, you didn’t even get to play one round.”

“You should look away, angel.”

Those were the only warnings before a BLAM suddenly rang out, red splattered all over the bar and the floor- and the guy no longer has a face.

Everyone’s screaming, scrambling out of the club. You’re also screaming, but the Dealer can’t help but smile. You were shaking and pushed back into his chest, trying physically distancing yourself from the body.

Just as satisfying as killing the player after a round of double or nothing.

[the-kr8tor]

What is Normal for the Spider is Chaos to the Fly

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 8.7 k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, No specific physical description of the reader, CW violence and gore, CW blood, TW death, CW guns, CW food mention.

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

Navigation

CHAPTER 3 >>> CHAPTER 4

Eyes closed, you breathe in the fresh spring breeze, the first of many this season. Pollen makes your nose itch, bees buzz around the field of flowers, yellow dots kissing the soft petals. A babbling brook sits near you, perfect spherical rocks worn down by the waters makes you want to skip them across the transparent clean water where fish lie and swim right under the currents.

The bright sun above shines down on you, its light fighting through your eyelids and through the canopy of the oak tree. Its strong trunk provides the perfect back rest, the wood is stable and protective of your relaxed form. Like the softest carpet, the green grass below is splayed under you. Blades of grass and wildflowers swaying amidst the wind just like how your lashes flutter with every soft blow of the cool air.

“Why'd you stop?” Hobie asks from below. You crack open your eyes to see his lopsided smile, jade eyes crinkling in the corners. His head is resting on your lap, fingers absentmindedly playing a tune on the beaten up guitar on his chest. There's flowers in his hair, courtesy of you. “C’mon, lovie, I was just starting to fall asleep.”

You chuckle, and he smiles wider. The sun bathes you in its glow, a halo of light around your head, a heavenly sight for a mere mortal. “You're spoiled you know.” You realize your fingers are in his hair, soft fingertips paused on his skin. Your vision goes blurry, with a blink, everything shifts back. “So spoiled.”

“Says the one who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth.” He says it with no ounce of malice.

“How'd you know about spoony?” You joke, he laughs, a sound better than anything you've ever heard of. “How was work?”

“Lonesome, you didn't come by.” You tilt your head, lips pursing into a soft smile. “Do I still smell like gunpowder to you?”

“No, you smell like flowers.”

“Is it too late to say that I'm allergic to ‘em?”

You giggle, “No you're not. You haven't even sneezed.” Grabbing a daisy from his hair to wiggle it under his nose, his face scrunches up comedically, and then he fakes a sneeze. The loudness of it startles the birds nesting by the branches, wings fluttering rapidly further away.

“Good job, you scared the birds.” You look down at him, hand inching closer to the daisy ring you've made a while ago.

“What? I can't sneeze?” His eyes are glued to you, the sun paints a pretty picture of his viridescent eyes shining in the light.

With a deep inhale, you take his hand away from the guitar, slipping the flower ring you've been itching to place on his finger. Hobie seems to freeze up either in your touch or the sight of the makeshift ring. You show him your hand, an identical white flower whose stems are wrapped gingerly around your middle finger.

“Ta dah.” You say shyly. The tightness around your chest clenches at his silence. “I'll take it off, I'm sorry. I thought—”

Hobie quickly reaches up to shield the ring away from you, “No, don't—it’s brilliant. Thank you.” You beam at him as he intertwines his fingers around your own, the rings in full display. “Suits me, I think. But it looks better on you.” You inhale, the comfortable warmth is replaced by icy air. Everything shifts.

The breeze is colder now, the grass is frozen under your feet, frost clinging to each blade. The canopy is no more, only dark angled branches with tiny leaves hang off the precious oak tree. A puff of smoke billows out of your dry lips, Hobie hugs you closer, hand rubbing up and down your arm, body heat shielding you from frost bite.

“Cold?”

“Yes, very.” You shiver, and he holds you closer. “This sunset better be worth it, Hobie, I had to put down a really good botanical book for this.” You say, cheek pressed atop his chest, breath warming his neck. You'd choose him over any book.

“First sunset of the season, love. It's worth it, I promise.” Without a second thought, he takes his coat off to place it over your shivering shoulders. You huddle closer, wrapping yourself around him. Sharing your warmth.

Blue slowly ebbs away as he pulls you closer. The clouds part ways for red and orange, pink splashes across the sky, a watercolour painting that leaves you gasping for air. Or was it his lips upon yours for the first time that has you heaving for air?

Hobie kisses you with the gentleness only a lover could provide, yet with the tentativeness of someone who isn't sure you'd kiss back. The pads of his fingers brush along your jaw, ghosting over your flustered flesh. With a sigh and a pull on his jacket collar, you kiss back. Lips pecking the corner of his own, clouds of smoke mixing in, hands warm on your searing cheeks— he slowly leads you towards the same oak tree. Your back hits the wood with an almost silent thump, his hand protecting the back of your head. Eyes closed, you memorize his lips by kiss alone. Your hands knead at his nape, he shivers not from the cold.

“I'm in love with you.” He says it confidently, like he's been saying it to himself for years. He feels like he has.

“I've been waiting to hear you say that.” Your eyes meet his own in a dance. Eyes flicking down to his lips, jade eyes looking between your blown out eyes and your quivering lips. “I've been in love with you. For a really long time.” You feel his lips open, mouthing the three words back against your own. It's barely above a whisper but you know that he'll scream it if you asked.

A flash of his warm hands around your own, a glimpse of a knife carving yours and his initials on the wood that you both call home. A muffled promise lingers in your ears, soft, just like his lips on yours.

You open your eyes and you see him above you. Hobie pinches your nose with a laugh, calloused fingertips squeezing lovingly at you, emerald eyes swimming with affection. The warm air passes by, humidity stuck in your nose. The sweat of your brow is quickly wiped away by him.

“Stop sayin' that, yeah?” You don't remember what you said. “You're bloody gorgeous, she doesn't know real beauty even if it hits her powdered arse.”

“Hobie!” You laugh, hands planted on his hips, the fabric of his shirt is hitched up for easy access. “She's still my aunt, and my legal guardian.”

“Unfortunately.”

Your smile agrees with him, but if you say it out loud you're afraid that the ground will swallow you alive and Hobie will be ripped away from you.

“It's a nice day today, you plannin’ on gropin’ me the whole afternoon?”

“Yep!” You look down at where his hands are placed, palms cupping you right above your ribs. “You planning on doing the same to me?”

“Say otherwise and I'll take my hands away from you—”

“No!” You say quickly before he could finish.

Hobie guffaws loudly, face leaning closer to yours. You close your eyes, expecting the expected. Instead, his head falls on the crook of your neck, blowing warm air into your skin.

Your laughs echoes around the clearing, fading into the sound of leaves crunching under your footsteps.

Orange leaves fall down on you like rain, a puff of breeze settles in your muscles, rattling your bones. Despite the cold, you inch your way closer to him, his smile beckons you over, grassy spring coloured eyes lighting up at the mere sight of you. His back resting on the strong oak tree that carries both your names.

“You know, we could always meet up at your place now that you're the up and coming associate.” You hold your hand out towards him, his fingers slide on your palm so naturally that you think you're made for eachother. “We can stop sneaking around now thanks to you.”

Hobie feels like he can finally breathe once he has his hands on you. He twists your wrist gently, leaning down, he presses a quick kiss on your pulse, eyes meeting your own. Years of being together, and he still makes your heart race.

Warm lips on your skin, he pecks it again for good measure before leaning away and pulling you closer. His hands are around your hip, while you wrap yours over his shoulders. “We could. But even after all my hard work, your aunt still doesn't—won't approve of us together. I'm me and you're you, love. What would they say when they see their heiress skulkin’ around the harbour, hm?”

“They won't say anything because I'm good at skulking around.”

“Or they'd say you're hurtin' your prospects of a good husband.”

“Fuck them! You and my garden are all I need.”

He calls your name solemnly, “we have to face the fact that—”

“What? That I'll be stuck in a loveless marriage in the near future?” You shake your head. “I refuse.” A humourless laugh breaks through.

“Good thing you said that or this will be awkward.” Hobie takes out a pair of gold rings from his pocket, it shimmers in the sunset, cold metal upon his warm trembling hands. “It took me a hundred days to save up for them, they're scraps from the factory. All melted together to make a pair.”

“Y–you're stealing from us now?” You could barely finish your joking sentence with the sob fighting to escape your throat.

Hobie laughs, a breathy one that has you mentally making up another joke just to hear it again. “Been at it since they hired me.” He hands you one, not sliding it down your finger, no, he places it right in the middle of your palm. “Remember those daisy rings you made years ago?” You nod, eyes brimming with tears. “I've made ‘em real this time. But the next one would be pure gold, none of the mixed ones I've melted with it.” He bounces on the balls of his feet as you glance at the gold ring that is a hodgepodge of different shades of yellow gold. Some seem to be darker, some lighter. “You deserve real ones.”

“You could make me a ring out of grass and wood, and I'll still wear it everyday.” Taking the ring, you slide it into your middle finger, a promise, he says in your ears, a promise, you repeat against his lips as you slip his own ring around his finger. A promise you both carved out into the tree and into your hearts, a promise that you'd carve out into your skin if you could.

The smell of burning wood wakes you up with a start, You've woken up with tears trapped in your eyelashes.

Your eyes open to a boiling pot of brown liquid. It's familiar, awfully so that you've hated it, it reminds you of someone you'd rather not remember. Looking up at the sky that is darkened to a pale blue, turning the orange and green plains into its royal colour— The roaring open fire is the only bright thing in sight, a yellow glow amidst all the bitter blue.

The amber flames screams among the dead silence and the vast emptiness, ‘Someone’s here! Someone’s alive over here!’ yet, you don't feel like you are.

You cough from the cold, throat itching from dryness. Lifting your hands up to tug the blanket further up, you now notice the deep crescent moons left on your palms. Some even bled through the night, dried blood decorating the lines on your palms and under your fingernails.

“You're awake. Good.” Hobie's voice hits you like a carriage, sleep ridden mind still hazy. For a second you thought that you're still dreaming of him. But his solid form and smoke from his cigarette resting on a stone says he's real. Your mind can't dream of something so tethered to reality like this. “You want some?” He rattles the now empty tin cup, brown liquid dripping from the rim to the ground below.

“You're offering me a cup?”

He furrows his pierced brows. “‘course, there's plenty.”

“No, thank you. Do you have something to eat instead? Or water?” Sitting up, you wipe the sleep off your eyes. Your joints hurt, stomach gurgling, and ankle aching. You hate it here, he's the only one that's making everything bearable even though he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else than be with you. It still hurts, thinking that he does.

“Yeah.” Standing up with a groan, it seems like sleep didn't agree with him either. There's bags under his eyes, worsened by the shadow from the brim of his hat. Taking something from his pack on Buckeye, who still slumbers quietly, he holds out a canteen and a piece of dried meat wrapped in cloth. “‘ere.” The familiar scar on the back of your hand has him reeling away. He remembers the day you got it, he remembers how his hand trembled as he stitches your hand back together.

“Thank you.” You say, stiffly smiling. He nods, returning back to his seat.

Breakfast went over fast, with dawn turning into morning, and the crisp air warming down, you take the blanket off your shoulders. Bucky trotts on the road, coyotes chirp on your left and a tumbleweed passes by on your right. It feels like you and Hobie are the only people on the road, or even in the whole world.

You clear your throat, attempting to break the quiet after riding for hours in absolute silence. “So…are you an outlaw? A mercenary for hire, or even a trapper?”

“‘m one of those things, yes.”

“So mysterious. You know you're still an open book to me.” Looking over your shoulder, he grabs your chin to make you look away and to keep your eyes on the dirt road. To which you laugh at. “Yep, still an open book.” It's true that you still know him for the man that he was, but there's missing pieces of him in your mind. You intend to dive to find the pieces so you could piece together who he is today. Before you go home, before you part forever again.

“How would you know?” Hobie tamps down a smile even though you won't be able to see it. “Maybe I've changed in those five years.”

“Oh you have.” You'd know. “But I can still see through you. I know you, Hobart Brown. Or did you also change your name too?”

“It's Larry now.”

“You serious?” Looking behind, you see him sporting a smirk. A smile spreads across your lips at his playfulness, a semblance of the Hobie you once knew.

“For example?” He asks, something he might regret. “What do you see through me?”

“Well, you put this big bad façade up because it's what everyone expects you to be. But in truth, it's so you could survive here. I bet it's working well since you're still here breathing.”

“I don't care what anybody thinks, Y/N.”

“I know that too. But you still do it because you don't want them talking to you, coming close to you. I remember how hard it was to even get you to speak to me.”

“I was a kid, we were children, and I was new in town.”

“I got you to talk though. Still proud of myself that I got to see the real you.” You puff out your chest. “This place is just like our old town, you know. Harsher, yes, but this time you don't bother to try, not like last time.” Your voice lowers into a murmur. He knows why he doesn't bother, because there's no one out here that could get him out of his walled up shell just like you did. There's no one like you. “I still know you, after all these years. Even if you think I don't, or at least the version of you that you left me with.” The sky gets darker, grey clouds floating next to white fluffy ones, and you still remember how he held you the first time you shared a bed. “You've changed and I confess that I barely know this side of you. I don't know what happened to you in those five years but could you let me try to get to know you again? Just like last time?”

The clouds above darken his green eyes, something passes by them, something that has his hands gripping tighter around the reins.

“It's goin’ to rain.” Is all he could say. “We should hurry and find shelter, there's a shortcut I know.”

You inhale the sharp familiar smell of petrichor, letting it settle in your lungs, letting it drown you, letting it seep through your skin so you can focus on it rather than the flatness of his voice that lacks what you're used to.

“Sure,” you swallow thickly, nails digging into your hemp bindings instead of your flesh.

Hobie clicks his tongue thrice, a sharp almost whistle, and out runs Bucky faster on the sandy lonesome road. Hooves thudding like the rumble of the heavens above, a lightning storm races behind you, sparks of light flashing and clashing on the mountainous rocks of the west.

“Hold on,” Hobie whispers close to the shell of your ear, goosebumps spreading through you like poison ivy on skin. He leans forward, leather clad body shielding you from the harsh howling winds that approaches quickly. “This storm's comin' in fast.”

Wind whips your cheeks, cool air making you narrow your eyes into slits to protect it from the dusty debris. A silhouette of a person appears at the end of the road, you feel Hobie stiffen up from the suspicious man. Arms cage you in, the mysterious man's shadow gets closer and closer as Bucky whines and halts to a stop. Hobie hides your hands with his own, a small act that brings your mind a minute of peace.

“State your business.” Hobie says in a practiced tone, commanding like the one he used with the man who snatched you.

The old man walks with a twisted cane, a makeshift one made from an old branch. His eyes are dull and almost silver, blue rings around his irises, eyebrows thick and white, beard bushy and hair almost gone. Right behind him lies a dip in the road, a chasm from where you sat, a deep gorge from what you surmise. Right next to the road sits a dingy solemn cabin, roof looking like it's about to collapse under its own weight, hinges creaking, window shutters opening and closing harshly from the wind. A border collie barks at you, mismatched eyes unwavering, warning you of something to come.

“Just ‘ere to warn you, son.” The old stranger trembles, either from the cold or from his bad leg. “Anyone who come ‘ver down that road doesn't come out unscathed.” He wipes his face with the sleeve of his yellowed shirt. “Just tryin' be a good samaritan.”

“Yeah? Penance for the war then?” You give Hobie a look. He glances over to you in return.

“I was on yer side, son. I won't be out ‘ere warnin’ you and the missus if I wasn't now eh?”

“Thank you for the warning.” You pipe up, the brief silence has made the whole situation more awkward. “We'll try another route then—”

“No,” Hobie stands his ground, “just like she said, thank you for the warnin’ but that's the closest route to Strawberry.”

The man takes his hat off even with the intense shaking of his hand. He then places it on his chest like he's already mourning you. “Safe travels. Don't say I didn't warn ya.” With a whistle, the dog runs over to him before helping him walk home.

“Wait!” The man stops in his tracks, even the dog turns around to face you. “A storm's coming, you'll be cold. Here.” Sliding your hands away from Hobie's, you take the blanket from your lap.

“My eyes are bad but do I see you givin' me your coat?” He smiles toothily.

“Y/N—” Hobie warns.

“Yes, but it's a blanket, not a coat.” The man chuckles deeply, cheeks red and warm.

He whistles again, and the dog walks over to you. “Give it ‘ere to ol' Nellie.” The dog wags her tail, tongue lolling.

“Hi, Nellie,” you giggle as you lean down to place the fabric in her mouth. “Take good care of it. Good girl.” Hobie's hand is holding your waist, single handedly preventing you from falling over.

He remembers your kindness, how you don't falter when you see someone you can help. You're unequivocally kindhearted, a stark contrast to himself, and what he has become in those five years he wasn't by your side. He remembers how much he loved and longed for you. He needs to know who sent the letter on his behalf, but it can wait, maybe he'll thank them when he does find them.

You don't notice him look at you with the same expression he had years ago.

With a happy wag of her tail, Nellie skips over to her owner, handing him your blanket. “Thank you, miss, you've got a kind soul.” There's warmth in your chest, nodding towards the man. “You take care now. And you.” He looks over your companion. “Better watch her back and protect her kind soul eh?”

“Get inside, don't want you gettin' my blanket drenched.”

A laugh billows out as he waves you away. Entering his humble abode with a loud bang of his door.

“I think we should listen to him.” You say above the winds.

“We'll be fine,” Hobie's voice is softer. “I've been ‘ere before. Just listen to me, yeah?” He kicks gently, and Bucky takes his cue to run in the same direction again.

“If I listened to you back there then the poor man would've shivered from the cold.”

“And now you'll be the one shivering from the cold.”

“He needed it more than I did.” You almost scoff as you hold on tighter around the horn of the saddle while Bucky trudges downward on the slope and into the gorge.

“Don't expect me to get you a new one.”

Now you scoff. “Then don't.” Yet, your chest clenches from his words.

Buckeye finally slows down halfway through the gorge. Hobie inhales deeply, jade eyes flicking above the rocks. The walls seem to close in on you, fifty foot tall walls of ancient stone looming over you. A stream runs along the path, murky brown water splashing with every movement.

“Why'd you slow down—?” Your eyes widen at the moving figures above. “There's people up there.” You whisper as you watch them observe you. The bows on their back gather your attention, eyes piercing through you than the sharpest of arrows. Hobie suddenly grabs your chin, still gentle but with a sense of urgency this time. He turns your head towards the road, rough leather sliding from your chin to your hands.

“Keep your eyes on the road. And keep your mouth shut.”

“Will they let us pass?”

“Yes.” He says immediately.

“Do you know them?”

“Yes, now keep quiet.” Tipping the brim of hat in respect, you do as you're told. “Or they'll be the one askin' me questions. And we don't have time for friendly banter.”

When he says those words, you hear a whisper of his name from above, then a bout of laughter echoing downwards. Subtly looking over your shoulder, you see him crack a small smile.

You turn back towards the road, a soft morose smile on your lips from how much you've missed from his life. You want to know what happened to him in those five years, to be told stories of his adventures under the campfire. To be part of those stories once more, not whatever you're in with him. An afterthought, a burden.

You're starting to feel all the love he once gave you was just from your mind. Made up by you, dreamt and imagined.

—

The cave you've found shelter in is perfect. It's big enough to house you and Hobie, even Bucky rests inside, dry and happy while his dark eyes follow you— as if trying to keep an eye out for you. The cave protects you from the hammering rain outside and from the lightning that pierces the clouds. You lean on the rocky mouth of the cave, hands reaching outside to cup the rain and feel the sharp water droplets drench your skin. Lifting your head up, you watch the sky. The storm has no end in sight, yet, there’s a bit of light passing through the grey, a ray of sunshine that brings hope, blue peeking in between the dark clouds.

Water splashes against your flesh, cleaning the tiny gashes and dried blood that you're not sure is all from your body. The rope that binds you is soaked, weighing heavy around your wrists like steel bracelets.

Wind howling, lightning cutting through the sky like a bullet through skin— You don't feel his heavy gaze on you.

The roaring fire behind you provides warmth just like the man tending to it. And like the fire he's tending, he realizes that his affection for you still burns him inside out no matter how he tries to snuff it out.

The fire crackles, you watch your shadow dance with the flame's movements. You still don't feel his heavy stare on your back.

With a forced smile, an idea pops in your head. You let the water on your palms fall, flicking away the droplets, making your own patch of rain.

“I've got a proposition.”

“Come eat, smelly” You both speak at the same time, amusement flashes behind his precious emerald eyes that's illuminated by the embers.

"I don't smell." You laugh in between, loving the fact that he seems to be in a better mood. Sniffing at yourself, you scrunch up your nose from the smell. "That much. You're not any better.”

Hobie shakes his head, hiding the curl of his lips with the brim of his hat. He places a can of peaches in your direction. “We'll be in Strawberry by late afternoon. There's an inn there where we can rest and bathe.”

Sitting down next to him but still giving him enough space, you tuck your legs under you, wiggling your hands in front of him.

“Can you untie me now? I'm not going to run, Hobie. Where will I go?”

“Tell me about your so-called proposition.” Hobie raises a brow, teeth biting down and clenched around the leather before fully yanking his glove off. You suddenly feel hot when he unties your hands without another word.

There's no identical ring around his finger. Your happiness is snatched away at the sight of his empty finger. What was once a promise is now gone from his flesh that you used to trace with your own hands.

Clearing your throat, you watch the shadows on the cave walls flicker behind him. “W–we take the scenic route. I want to see the sights the new world has to offer. Before returning.” You don't even want to call it home anymore.

“The new world? You sound like a grandma.”

“You saying ‘state your business’ wasn't any better, grandpa.”

Hobie's eyes meet your own, green eyes aglow. A remnant of the Hobie five years ago. You could get used to this, his warm gaze that soothes you from the inside out, something that you never took for granted before but never thought you'd miss dearly. You welcome it back with open arms. Even if it was brief.

A flash of bright lightning hits outside your cave, startling you, free hand placed on your quaking chest.

“It's just lightning, love.” A freudian slip, a term of endearment that travels you both back in time. Now that he said it once more, he finds that it still fits you like a warm hug on a cold winter's day, or a first kiss, one of many.

Slowly turning your head, your lips tremble, eyes watering from a silent cry. You try to reach for him, but he deflects your touch by twisting around on his seat, taking a swig from his canteen. The only one that he has.

Quietly eating, your insides are yelling for you to hold him close, to be near him, to hug him until the screaming stops. You can't satiate the feeling, it bites at your bones, chewing, eating at you, going hungry, starving. You stand up, leaving the can of peaches on the ground, returning to the mouth of the cave so the feeling will ravage you alone once again like it always has for the past five years. You've survived this long, but there's barely anything left of you now— a husk, barely a speck, so you cry and cry, sobs muffled by the rain.

You don't feel his gaze on you. He feels the same gnawing feeling in his belly, crawling up to his chest, eating what's left of his heart like a vulture that carries all his grief and guilt.

—

You're back on the road again, the ground is wet and muddy. Clay and grass sticking to Bucky's hooves as he trudges along the soil. You purposely don't remind him about the missing rope around your wrist. Loving the freedom the lack of it brings, you brush your fingers through Buckeye’s hair; dark wavy tresses that reminds you of fine silk.

“You take good care of him.”

“You said that already.”

“I know, I'm just saying it again for emphasis. I hope you're taking care of yourself too.”

You feel him shift in his seat, fatigue rattling his bones that's exacerbated by the rocking movement.

“Do you feel alright?” You ask, looking over your shoulder. His eyebrows are furrowed, sweat dribbling from his forehead.

“‘m fine.”

“You don't look fine. Riding bareback this long hurts, we can switch places—”

“It would be better if you had your own horse.” Hobie groans, stretching his shoulders. Buckeye seems to notice the conversation, huffing and staring back at his rider. “‘m not replacing you, Bucky. Not yet anyway.”

The dark horse neighs, a high pitched sound that makes you laugh. “He was not happy with that.”

“He's not happy with anythin'” Hobie shakes his head at the horse, you're amused by the whole situation. “Picky eater, always demanding sugar cubes instead of a carrot or an apple. Fuckin' spoiled.” Bucky neighs again, louder this time, clearly annoyed.

“Just like his rider.” You giggle, Hobie stifles a roll of his eyes, a ghost of a smile on his pierced lips. “Careful with your comments or he might buck you off and have me as his rider instead.”

Hobie's amusement fades, his eyes hardens, a sight that has your heart thrumming loudly, a sight that you're very familiar with back at home.

“I‘m sorry— I–I didn't mean to.” You frantically apologize, shaking your head, hand reaching for his own, palm hovering over his gloves.

“Look ahead.” He gestures forward. “Nothin' to apologize for, love.”

“Are you sure?” You can't seem to slow down your breathing.

Hobie notices, blinking, he tentatively takes your hand in his. Squeezing once, jade eyes searching your hurt face. Guilt passes through him.

He should've come back for you.

“Yes,” he swallows thickly, slowing down Bucky's steps. “Breathe for me, yeah?” You nod, inhaling and exhaling. “Good, keep doin' that.” Inhale, exhale, “atta girl. Now listen to me, I need you to hold on tight, and do what I say.”

“What's wrong?” Did you do something wrong again? You hold on tight just like he asked.

“Eyes up front, sweetheart.” The floodgates open, he can't stop himself from calling you those honeyed names. And you can't stop looking at him. With a gentle hold to your chin, he carefully moves it forward. You see five people waving you over further down the road. They're accompanied by a broken down carriage, three wheels missing, no oxen in sight, just a few horses hitched near them.

They call you over, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh thank God!” You hear them say, their forms getting closer and closer.

“They need help.” You say, Hobie's hand around the reins tightens.

“And we're not goin' to give it to ‘em.”

“What? Why?”

“That's bait, we're not fallin’ for it.” His eyes don't leave the strangers’ hands.

“Bait—? They genuinely look like they need help.”

“We're close to town, and they have horses. They could've gone over there instead of flagging down an armed stranger.”

“I'm not armed.”

“Yes, but I am.” With a swift kick, Hobie guides Buckeye to a mad dash. Your back hits his chest from the sudden momentum. A dull ache on your spine, a tingling sensation on his ribs.

Buckeye passes by the broken carriage, leaving dust in their eyes. “C’mon, Bucky! Get us out of ‘ere, boy!”

Wind in your eyes, you look behind, your heart falls in your stomach when you see them follow immediately on their horses, guns drawn, aiming at Hobie.

“Oh fuck!” A bullet whizzes past your head, missing you by just a few inches. You feel it's hot searing metal fly past, “they're shooting at us! Why the fuck—!”

Hobie twists, with one hand on the reins, and the other on his gun, he shoots down one man with precision. The bullet hits its mark, right in his heart. A fountain of crimson splashes from his wounded body, his feet still strapped in the stirrups, flinging the now lifeless body around like a window shutter in a storm.

Hobie shoots again, a horse falls, another bullet, and one gets iron in their gullet. And another and another, one on the leg and one on the shoulder, but they still ride on. Until Hobie's gun clicks, its chamber now empty, in slow motion, you see the remaining survivors use the opportunity to aim at Hobie's head. With quick thinking, you twist uncomfortably, body stretching behind to grab the hunting rifle strapped on Bucky's back. Within a second, you sit upright with the barrel pointing at them.

Hobie sees it all happen while he frantically reloads. His gun jams from carelessness, heart beating like a snare drum, fingers frantically trying to fix it. The sun is in his eyes as he sees you cock your head over his shoulder, the long barrel of the rifle is placed atop his leather jacket, finger itching to press the trigger.

“Duck.” Your voice is calm as Hobie follows through your command, the firing pin ignites, sparks fly, the smell of gunpowder permeates the air, bullet whizzing and hitting your mark— Right in between the eyes.

Gore explodes from what used to be a head, then a scream from the remaining target. Hobie steers Bucky, whilst you fight. Fight for him, and for yourself.

Pulling the bolt handle, without missing a beat you release the shell with a clink of metal. The remaining man looks at his dead companion in horror, still riding on next to him, now missing a head. Just like they did, you use the opportunity to reload, hand reaching for Hobie's gun belt, taking what you need, reloading with an expert hand. You pull the bolt to place the bullet, pushing it in, you aim once again. At the same time, the man screams, aiming at you. But you're faster.

Inhale. You shoot, hand steady, eyes focused.

A wet squelch can be heard, then a body thuds harshly on the ground as a horse neighs, crying and trotting wildly. You finally exhale. Hobie reins Bucky in, hooves digging in, he stops.

“Holy shit.” Hobie stares at you with a growing smile, cheeks aflame, not from the adrenaline nor the fight. “You can shoot.”

“You taught me.” Your eyes doesn't leave the violence you left behind.

“Yeah, but not like that!” He laughs in disbelief. His heart hammers in his chest, and he remembers all the times he held your hand in his while he teaches you the basics.

“What do you think I've been doing since you left?” You swallow thickly, nerves catching up, hands trembling around the rifle. “My books can only take me so far until I've read the entire library.”

Hobie holds your cheek, face concerned, thumb running along the tear you don't notice slide down your cheek. “Can you look at me, lovie?”

Slowly but surely, you turn your head. “We manufacture guns, Hobie, it's important for me to learn.”

“I know, but shootin’ it at people is different.” He would know, he worked at the same place. “Are you alright?”

“Now you ask me that?” You hand him the rifle, breath shuddering. “Can we go now, please?”

Hobie could only nod, hand itching to hold you again.

—

You finally reach Strawberry, it has a sweet sounding name but it's anything but sweet. The streets are thick with mud, the smell is much better than the other town but it still makes your nose itch. The place is situated on the foot of a mountain, the air is cooler with heavy winds persisting. Rows and rows of establishments lie along the road, a saloon with a balcony on your right, a doctor's office on your left. Convenient, you think.

A brothel sits next to the saloon, women gathered around on the porch, smiling and hollering at the people who pass by. Hobie garners their attention, (who wouldn't be?) despite riding with you on the same horse. He doesn't give them any attention, a disappointment on their part. His eyes are too busy looking over your profile and the inn that's situated on the hill.

You flick your eyes over to him, as if he has a sixth sense, he stares back. “What?”

“Nothing.” You whisper.

Hobie hides a small smile over your shoulder. He stops Buckeye at the front of the inn, hopping off, he hitches his horse first before giving you a hand, surprising you.

Without a second thought, you take his outstretched hand, bare against his leather clad one. You land carefully on the soft ground, cringing at the wet squelch of mud on your shoes.

“I need a bath,” you stomp over towards the porch and out of the mud. Hobie's hand finally leaves your side once you step foot on the steady planks. “And a nice bed.”

“That's why we're ‘ere.” He says while he takes his pack from Bucky's back. Giving the horse a pet and a much deserved sugarcube. He whispers something to the horse, to which Bucky neighs in reply. Stepping on the porch right next to you, the dark horse nods at his rider.

You laugh at them. “What'd you tell him?”

“I promised him a place at the stable so he could get a proper rest. ‘m gonna take him once you're inside.”

“Are you gonna leave me here?” Panic sets in your stomach.

Hobie furrows his brows, “no, ‘course not.” I'd never do that. He thinks, but he already did, years ago. “C’mon.”

Bucky neighs to you this time, tail swishing behind him. “G’night, Buck.” You give him a small wave. “You did a good job today.”

Entering the inn, the smell of pine and something fruity catches your nose. Its walls are all wooden, lined with old photos and animal furs. There's a fireplace in the common area where a couple of people sit and chat by the fire. The place is cozy, it's the first time you feel like you can finally have a nice comfortable place to sleep in since you landed in America.

Hobie knocks on the reception desk, leaning on the table, clearly tired and weary. Whilst you try not to think about what you did earlier, you roam your eyes everywhere in an attempt to push all the thoughts away, to kick the gore you saw, and the act that you've executed far far away from you. Your hand trembles at the sight of a deer head hanging on the wall. Then you remember the man whose head you blasted to pieces. Heart beating faster, breath stuck in your throat, Hobie suddenly takes your hand— squeezing, reminding you to breathe.

Before he could comfort you further, a middle aged man appears behind the desk. Shoulders broad, mustache well maintained and curled at the ends. Blue eyes wide and full of wisdom.

“Welcome to Strawberry inn.” He says in a comfortable yet deep tone. His eyes flick towards your intertwined hands, lips smiling faintly. “The name's Finn, room for one?”

Hobie clears his throat, taking his hand back on his side. “Yes, two beds.”

“Ah, a conservative couple eh?”

“Sure,” Hobie acts, nodding along.

“Name?”

“Larry Smith. And baths for the missus and I.”

Finn nods, showing him a sign on his desk. “three dollars for a regular one, five for a deluxe bath.”

“Deluxe?” You ask, curious.

Hobie beats Finn to the punch by explaining it himself. “It's when a woman helps you scrub down.”

You blink twice in quick succession. “Oh.” Cheeks warm, you awkwardly bounce on your feet. “A–are you going to take the deluxe one, Ho–Larry?”

“I might.” He says with a smirk, eyes shining.

“Okay.” You crane your neck towards Finn, “what's our room number?” Your tone inches towards something that has Hobie amused.

“Uh, three—” You're already snatching the keys from him and then quickly speed walking up the stairs. You turn to the right, Finn calls after you. “Left side, ma’am.” Frustrated, you walk the other way. He then turns towards Hobie with a shake of his head. “Happy wife, happy life, english. Don't tease her like that or you'll end up sleeping in the stables.”

Hobie bites his tongue so he couldn't laugh. “I know that now, thanks, mate.”

—

You feel nice, nicer than you should be after what you did. There's a pebble inside you that keeps growing and growing in the pit of your stomach right next to the boulder that has resided there for years. You have no idea what is, but you want it gone just like how you disappear under the tepid water of the tub.

Hobie has laid out clothes for you, it sits on the chair in the corner. A white work shirt that smells like him and a pair of clean socks. Your skirt hangs on the doorway, days worth of dirt and dust clinging to it. The walls are thin, you hear the hinges squeak in the next room, the arguing couple above; and a child's cry from below. The water laps at your chin, now cold and icy on your slowly freezing skin. Like muscle memory, you hold your hand up, the jagged long scar across the back of your hand has you tracing the remnants of the injury— what he used to do to remind you that he's there, that you're safe. But when he left, when he disappeared into the night, leaving you to the horrid predetermined life, you had to do it yourself. You had to carry yourself everyday with the heavy boulder in your heart, surviving each day without him, hurting, rotting in that damned empty mansion you never asked for.

You thought you could finally take the boulder out of you and place it down once and for all when you saw him. it's still there, weighing you down like a hundred ton steel of grief and longing. You don't resent him for what he did, running away, leaving you when the night before he promised you sweet words, words of freedom, words of an escape. No, you don't hate him. Yes, there's days where you would curse his name, but it never lasts. It never does, even now. You still love him even when he doesn't feel the same way anymore.

Your eyes prick from all the unshed tears, everything makes you cry nowadays, even the old lonesome man you met on the road brought a tear to your melancholy eyes. But you can't seem to find the courage to cry in front of him, to let him see your salty tears flow out of you like a raging river of sorrow. And moreso, you're afraid, afraid of home, afraid of what's waiting for you at the end of the road. Whether it be a coyote with its maw opening to lunge at your neck. Or a rattlesnake ready to strike silently at your open wound.

You're not afraid of him, you're afraid to lose him again to the coyotes and rattlesnakes.

Lifting both hands, you watch the blood that collects within the lines of your palms. Rubies ebbing into your life line, your love lines, and into your death— you'd carry the life you've taken until you're six feet underground, decaying, milky bones turning to dust, food for the worms. And yet, the blood in your hands would stay there, even when your hands are eaten by the soil, brought back to where you once came.

Hobie's right, this place changes you. Molds you into something that can survive its harsh environment, just like the plants you once read about. And just like the coiling vines, the flowers that wait and bite their prey; the leaves that kill when cut— you intend to survive the harshness of it all.

With a deep inhale, you leave the metal tub. Water splashes across the floor as you stand up, the even colder air leaves goosebumps in its wake. You dry yourself and dress like an automaton, movements rigid, eyes blank.

Opening the door with a creak, you're met with Hobie standing in the hallway, just across from you. His hand still lingers around the doorknob, viridescent eyes blinking slowly at you.

For a second that felt like hours, you watched each other. How his eyes flick over your form and over his work shirt that you wear. How water still clings to his chest, soaking parts of his white shirt. And how his finger twitches around the doorknob whilst steam escapes from the slits in the doorway. He observes you with vigilant eyes, how your lips are slightly parted, chest breathing heavily. And how much your legs are begging to run towards him, feet pointed in his direction, heels lifted up slightly, but you don't. You don't run to him, instead, you toss him the keys to the room before he could ask for it himself. He catches it with ease.

“You're closer to the room.” Walking closer, you rub your arms for warmth.

Hobie sniffs, hand wiping a stray droplet from his forehead, pack slung over his shoulder. He unlocks the door that's a few steps away, with a click, he opens it for you.

“You look like you're about to pass out.”

You push past him, trying to smile, but you fail. “I feel like I will in a second—” pausing by the doorway, you sharply inhale. “You asked for two beds right?”

“Yeah— fucker.” Hobie clicks his tongue at the sight of the single bed standing in the room. “I'll go get our rooms changed.”

“I'm fucking tired, Hobs.” You lumber your way towards the inviting bed, too tired to even check the room and its sparse décor. “Complain tomorrow. It's not like we haven't shared a bed before.”

“That was different—”

“How is it any different?” Shucking off your shoes, you blink at him through tired eyes. “It's just sleeping next to each other. We were doing anything but that back then.”

He curses breathlessly under his breath. “Fine, don't hog the blanket.”

“Don't kick in your sleep.” You smile for the first time since you pulled the trigger. Slithering inside the warm covers, you lay your head on the lumpy pillows. Heaven to you after sleeping but nothing on the ground or hay for the past few weeks.

“I don't kick in my sleep.” Hobie does the same, laying next to you, giving you enough space in between. “You're the one who kicks in your sleep. Like a fuckin' donkey.”

You lay on your side, inching closer to him. “Please, I'm more of a mustang, not a donkey.”

“Back then you were more like the rider than a horse.” He jokes with a smug smile across his lips.

Your cheeks are aflame, laugh creeping up your throat. The heaviness in your chest subsides, the blood in your hands thins. “You wanna bet?”

Hobie's joking expression is replaced by something else. Flustered, amused, and a mix of an emotion that he has only felt for you. “Fuckin' hell, love.” He turns away from you, lest he lets his thoughts get to him. “Good night, you fuckin' minx.” He hears you laugh, immediately he wants to turn back around and meet you face to face, just like before. But he doesn't.

You're met with his back. The feeling comes back, like a cockroach that wouldn't die even with how much you try to stomp on it. It was foolish to think that he'd love you forever. It was foolish to think that he'd greet you with open arms after years of being apart. How foolish, they'd always whisper to you, naive, and stupid, always standing on the edge of the crowd, eyes always looking for something, someone. Someone that lays before you now.

“Good night, Hobie.” He mouths your next words like clockwork. “Only dream of good things.” You refrain from doing the next thing, a kiss for sweet dreams, a whisper of the three words to remind him of you in the dreamworld.

Hobie silently wishes you did.

Soon enough, soft snores can be heard from behind him. Peeking over his shoulder, he makes sure you're asleep before quietly standing up. Sheets rustling, he tiptoes over the noisy planks, breathing silent. Hobie takes a chair from the corner, propping it under the doorknob, shaking the chair, he makes sure that it's locked up tightly. He can never be sure with the simple singular lock on the door.

Once he's sure that it will hold up, he takes his gun from the hanging gun belt, checking the chamber, he keeps it on the waistband of his trousers. After checking all the windows and the fireplace, he finally joins you back in bed. Gun placed on the bedside, ready to be used just in case. Laying on his side, he faces you, observing how the moon shines just across your face. You look peaceful, relaxed, and he remembers how much he has missed you. Like an impossible itch. A craving that cannot be satiated. Incurable, until you're within reach.

His tired eyes stare at the glaring scar across the back of your hand. Hobie remembers how you got the scar on your hand, it was warm that day, searing hot whilst you ran into the woods frantically to meet him. As a result of your unmindful actions, a sharp branch takes a chunk of your skin; leaving him to sew it close for you. He reminisces of how your face contorts to pain with every suture, and how you grip his shoulder to tamp down your screams. He wasn't careful, or even thinking about how it would scar, he just wanted to get it over with so you'd stop hurting. He held you for hours after, held you more after your great aunt saw the damage. She called you broken that day.

He blinks and he's back to the present. He can never go back. You can never go back. So he inches his hand closer to yours, pinky brushing along your skin. Finally, he curls his pinky finger around your ring finger. Linking his life line to yours. Just like he always does to the identical hidden ring around his neck. Your scar peers from the side, a reminder that everything that happened before was real. That all those saccharin touches and words were flesh and blood. He wishes he could go back, to take you away the moment she called you broken.

In his sleep he dreams of you.

[pseudocyance]

This is not a joke. We have to change.

We have to fix this. This can't keep happening.

This is the closest I've ever been to a shooting. I live in Wisconsin. I was in school when this happened. I don't know any of the victims, and I send all of my best wishes to their families.

Fix this. Fix this, America.

[destielmemenews]

"A source briefed on the investigation said each word was meticulously written, not etched, onto the casings in Sharpie. Officials are examining the casings to determine whether the words could be related to a possible motive involving insurance companies and their responses to claims. Investigators believe they could reference "the three D's of insurance" coined by the industry's critics, which are "delay," "deny" and "defend." The alliteration is a comment on the tactics that opponents say insurance companies use to delay or deny policyholders' claims."

source 1

source 2

source 3

[incorrectbatfam]

I headcannon that this shotgun^ Jason randomly took home is the very same one Alfred uses all the time.

I also wanted to share Jason with a 12 gauge double barrel shotgun lol.

the 80s comics are killing me with how little Jason we got. It was like 10ish issues post crisis.

In a different continuity it went a little more like this:

[st-dionysus]

Note from an angry trans man.

Of course, I’m angry. Who wouldn’t be. Dead children, dead teachers, a trans man to blame and the world ready to blame every single one of us instead of a single person -- instead of mental illness -- instead of guns -- instead of all the horrors that surround us. Eager to blame our HRT, our transitioning, our existence. Trans sisters who should be standing up against the abuse and shame put on their brothers – who instead decide to reject us, to blame us for anti-trans legislation, to group us all with Aiden Hale. To further stigmatize testosterone and trans-manhood. To act as though we are the harbinger of doom.

Of course, I’m angry. Dead trans people fill the news and wiki articles. Trans men among the corpses, but we don’t say their names. The bodies of FTM children left on the road, genitals mutilated, and newspapers printed with the wrong name and pronouns. Misgendered in death. Misgendered in rape, assault, and murder statistics. Misgendered in the publication of his horrific crime.

Of course, I’m angry. One of my brothers killed six people – three children and three adults. “Police then killed 28-year-old shooter Audrey Aiden Hale, who investigators said left behind a manifesto and detailed maps about how to carry out the attack. Law enforcement officials have not shared details about a suspected motive.”

Of course, I’m angry. The Nashville shooting was the 128th US mass shooting this year. There were 127 other mass shootings this year (and it’s only the end of March), most of which we did not talk about, most of which we did not address. More than 348,000 students have experienced gun violence at school since Columbine. There has been 89 school shooting incidents in the USA so far in 2023.

I want to rip something apart with my hands. I want to scream. I want to bleed. There is rage in my body, and it’s locked away behind tears and prayers. I consider cutting for the first time in over a year. I think about drinking myself to death or blowing my brains out in protest, but I don’t want to leave my cat alone, I don’t want my friends to cry about me, or to leave my lover heart-broken. I don’t want to be another dead trans man. I don’t want to be another name on the list of FTMs that have killed themselves. I’m already a part of the 50% of the FTM population who has tried at least once, I don’t want to try again. More than that, I don’t want my deadname to be the name I die with. I don't want to be seen as a dead woman.

I watch people die every day. I fear the deaths of my grade-school siblings. I fear the death of my loved ones. I fear walking into a gay bar and being carried out in a body bag.

Of course, I’m angry. It must be the testosterone.

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

The Grand A-Z List of Whump 1/3

This list contains ~290 items listed A to H

As always, I heavily encourage people to research topics thoroughly when writing as it is important to avoid stereotypes/misinformation. This list's intention is not to glorify/romanticise sensitive topics in any way.

This part one-of-three comprehensive lists of injuries, Illnesses and tropes - including those from the Whumptober 2023 trope vote!

All submissions are listed in italics, and those who wanted to be tagged will be included at the end. If you have any more submissions: please send them via DM/my ask box.

[I-Q] [R-Z] [NSFW List]

List below the cut:

#

"I don't need your help."

"I'm doing this to make you better"

"I'm fine, take care of them!"

“I’m Fine”

"Kill me instead"

"Let me in."

"Look at me."

"Should I know you?"

"Take me instead."

(No) Anaesthetic

A

A Good Ol' Sickfic

Abandoned

Abdominal Pain

Aching Wounds

Acne

Adrenaline Crash

Adrift (in space/at sea)

Agoraphobia

Airsickness

Alien abduction

Allergies

Alopecia

Ambulance Ride

Ambush

Amnesia/memory loss

Amputations

Anaemia

Anesthesia

Angina (Heart condition that causes pain)

Animal Attack/Bite

Ankle Sprain

Anthrax

Anxiety/Anxiety attack(s)

Aphasia

Appendicitis

Arrested

Arthritis

Asking for help

Asphyxiation

Assumed Dead

Asthma/Asthma Attack

Auctions

Autoimmune disease

Avalanches

B

Backache

Bad Caretakers

Bandaged Head

Banished

Barbed Wire

Bear trap

Beaten up by ex-friends

Beaten with blunt object (i.e, bat or pipe)

Beatings

Bedrest

Bedside Vigil/Hospital Vigil

Begging

Betrayed by close friend/team/family

Bites (Animal, Bug, Human….)

Biting

Black Eye

Blackmail

Bleeding Out

Bleeding Through

Bandages

Blindfolded

Blindness (this could be temporary or permanent)

Blisters

Blood Loss

Blood Poisoning

Bloodied Knuckles

Bloodstains/blood trail

Bloody handprints

Bloody nose

Blunt force trauma

Blurred vision

Body modification

Body Sharing

Body Switching

Bounty on their head

Brain Damage

Brainwashing

Breakdowns

Breathless

Bridal Carry

Broken Bones (Ribs, Arm, Leg)

Broken Nose

Broken Promises

Bronchitis

Bruises

Building Collapse

Bullet Removal

Bumpy roads jarring injuries

Buried Alive

Burning Building

Burns/Scalding

Busted kneecap

C

Cancer

Caning

Capgras syndrome/delusion (belief that someone close to/important to the person has been replaced by an imposter)

Capsulitis

Captivity

Captured

Car chases (and maybe a car crash)

Carbon monoxide poisoning

Cardiac Arrest

Caretaker has to “play nice” with whumper.

Caretaker has to hurt whumpee while undercover.

Caretaker sacrificing something dear to them to get something the whumpee needs.

Caretaker turned Whumpee

Caretaker-whumper who's a parental whumper. But their "love" is not real love. Or even right treatment.

Carsickness

Cataracts

Catatonia

Caught in a fire

Caught in an explosion

Cauterization

Cave In

Cavity

Celebrity whump (exploitation in the music/movie industries…)

Chaffing from ropes/handcuffs/shackles

Chained/Shackled

Checking for injuries

CHF - congestive heart failure

Chicken Pox

Chills

Chloroform

Choking

Chronic pain

Claustrophobia

Cleaning wounds alone

Cold/Flu,

Collapsed Lung

Collapsing (into someone’s arms is usually nice, bonus points for cradling their head as they lower the whumpee to the floor)

Collapsing after they win

Collapsing/Fainting/Passing Out

Collars

Coma

Comfort after a nightmare

Common cold

Completely betrayed by their own team

Complications

Concussion

Confusion

Constipation

Constricted Airways

COPD - Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease makes breathing increasingly more difficult.

Corporal Punishment

Corset too tight and won’t unbutton

Coughing

Coughing Up Blood

CPR

Cramps

Crikes (intubation through neck)

Crush injury

Crying

Cuddle pile

Curses

Cuts/Grazes

Cutting off hair (more of an emotional hurt)

Cyanide poisoning

D

Damaged Larynx/Vocal Cords

De-aging

Deathbed Confessions (don’t have to actually die and stay dead, just the threat of dying)

Defeat

Defenestration (throwing out a window)

Dehydration

Deja Vu

Delirium (bonus points for this being drug/ fever induced)

Deluded whumper/thinking they’re helping the whumpee

Dengue Fever

Denial

Depression

Dermatitis

Diabetes (type 1 and 2)

Diarrhea

Diseases ('mystery' diseases are the best kind)

Dislocations

Disorientation

Disowned by Family

Displaced hip

Dissociation

Distress call

Dizziness

Dragged Away

Dream sequence

Driving to the hospital with a whumpee slumped barely-conscious in the seat of the car

Drowning

Drunkenness

E

Ear Infection

Edema (swelling from build up of fluid)

EKG

Electrical Burns

Electrical shock

Electrocution

Emergency field surgery

Emergency Surgery

Emotional angst

Emotional manipulation

Endometriosis

Enemy to Caretaker

Energy Drain

Environmental whump

ER

Execution

Exes reunited with one wanting a relationship and the other just wanting friendship.

Exhaustion

Experimentation

Exposure

Extreme Weather

Eye injury

F

Facing Phobias

Failed Escape

Failure to thrive

Fainting

Fainting (but also fainting aftermath) / Fainting due to lack of sleep, food, or overworking fainting from exhaustion

Falling

Falling for Caretaker/Whumpee/Whumper

Falling Through Ice

Fatigue/Exhaustion

Fever

Fibromyalgia (Chronic Pain)

Field medicine

Fighting (while injured)

Financial difficulty faced + how whumper might take advantage of that + how caretaker handles everything (well/badly)

Finding your loved one dead without explanation but thinking they’re still alive.

Fireman's carry

Flare ups

Flashbacks

Flinching away

Flu

Food Poisoning

Forced to... (Break out, Choose, Hurt, Kneel, Scream, Watch)

Forehead kisses

Forgotten by team

Foul-tasting medicine

Found family

Found unconscious

Fracture (Arm, Hyoid bone etc)

Freezing / cold whump

Friendly Fire

Frostbite

G

Gagged/Muzzled

Gangrene infection

Gaslighting

Gas (noxious, poisonous etc)

Gastritis

Glass (shards, debris etc)

Grief

Gunshot Wound

H

Hair Pulling/Cutting/Matting/Stroking

Hallucinations

Hanahaki

Handcuffs

Handgag

Hard ground

Haunted

Hay Fever

Head injuries/concussion

Head trauma

Headache/Migraine

Heart Palpitations

Heartburn

Heat Exhaustion

Heatstroke

Heavy metal poisoning

Held at gunpoint/knifepoint/weapon point

Hematohidrosis (Sweating blood)

Hemophilia/Hematophilia (Blood unable to clot)

Haemothorax

Hernia

Hidden Illness/Injury/Scar/Medical Issues

Hiding

High Blood Pressure

High Fever (like dangerously high)

High Pain Tolerence

Hit by a car

Home Sickness

Hospital Codes

Hostage Situation

House burnt down

Huddling for Warmth

Human Shield

Human Weapon

Hunger

Hungover

Hunted for Sport

Hurt no comfort

Hyperalgesia,

Hypermobility

Hyperventilating

Hypo/Hyperthermia

Hypo/Hyperthyroidism

Hypoglycemia

Hypotension/ Hypertension

Hypoxia

TAG LIST: Thank you very much to the following people for submitting ideas! (I apologise if some tags did not work, I'm not sure why tumblrs not letting me tag you!)

@I-eat-worlds | @greygullhaven | @letsgowhump | @cyberwhumper @firapolemos05 | @originaldeerhottub | @whumpilicious | @drawing-dinos82 | @carenrose | @stellarinuscronicles | @gottheseasonalblues | @marvelflame2010 | @sowhumpful | @avamcu | @courtneygacha | @lordofthewhumps | @autismmydearwatson | @kuddelmuddell | @the-most-handsome-ginger | @whirls-and-swirls | @painsandconfusion

[carcinogenet1cist]

Holy shit