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ollieofthebeholder · 3 days ago

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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]

3 notes · View notes

the-kr8tor · 4 months ago

Text

Dead Man's Hand

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 11.5k

Tags: Use of Y/N, sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Cowboy AU, wild west AU, CW food mention, CW vomit mention, CW blood and gore, CW guns, TW violence, TW abuse, TW suicidal thoughts, TW death.

A/N: if there are any warnings that I've missed please tell me so I could add it in.

This chapter tackles dark themes, read at your own discretion.

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

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CHAPTER 10 >>>

The pungent, acrid and hot air of metal and gunpowder brings Hobie back in time as he slams open the steel doors to the factory with a harsh kick. Machinery whirs, and twists, sharp steel dancing to the beat of the flames as it turns molten iron into instruments of death.

Hobie roams his fury-filled eyes around the factory, green flames flicker in those eyes, finding grime coated faces of strangers staring back at him and his posse. One glances their dark eyes towards the upper level of the factory where a balcony is placed. Where Hicks would look down with contempt, and would scream at the overworked employees to hurry production. Hobie knows it all too well, the factory mirrors the one back home. In the middle of the balcony sits an office with frosted windows that bear Hicks’ name. But the man is nowhere to be found within the crowd.

“If you're not Hicks, get the fuck out.” He doesn't need to yell the command, for everyone turns to run outside towards the back exit where half of Miguel's gang lies in wait; and Hicks' lackeys lay dead on the soft muddy ground.

One running and hiding away amidst the crowd catches his eye with the same face as one of the men who buried him all those years ago. “‘cept you.” With one swift raise of his six shooter, smoke billowing out, a hole now sits on the man's torso where his heart should be. “Hicks, better get down ‘ere or my people will blow this place to the ground.” Hobie steps over the bloody body, crimson coating the sole of his boots. “Rainin’ bullets don't mix well with a room full of explosives.”

There's no movement nor a whisper in the entire factory save for the fading sounds of the machines slowly shutting off. He catches a glimpse of a shadow behind a closed frosty door in the upper level of the factory. It was quick and sudden, if not for Riri's gentle nudge towards the movement, he'd think he was seeing you again for a brief cruel moment.

“Ri, Karl, come with me.” Hobie emerges behind the blackened air from the large machines. Three sets of boots thumping silently as they bound upstairs.

He reaches the door, back on the solid wall and away from the glass. Riri stays on his right, shotgun cocked and ready while Karl checks his bag of TNT on Hobie's left. As he moves to open the door, a bullet pierces the glass, shattering it into sharp tiny pieces. A shard nicks Hobie's cheek, but he ignores the throbbing pain as blood trickles out.

“You're still alive, you little shit?!” Hicks yells, shooting blindly at the door.

The trio stays still and waits for the opening. A click echoes in the quiet, and clouds of gunpowder float through the air. Hobie and the others take their opportunity. Karl lights a stick of dynamite, chucking it inside the room and then ducking down to cover his ears. Hobie doesn't waste time, leaving the safety of the cover, he twists to face the door, shooting at the flying TNT— effectively blowing it near Hicks while Hobie holds onto his hat so that it doesn't get blown away.

The explosion causes Hobie to stagger backwards, if not for Riri pulling him back to the side, he would've fallen off the railings. Sulfur fills the air as they cough, puffs of grey smoke clouds the entire office space.

His ears ring, a sharp high pitched sound that he's awfully familiar with. He gives Riri a thankful nod, which she replies with a smug smile and a raise of her eyebrow. Hobie takes the lead, flicking his eyes towards Karl, who gives him a thumbs up, and with his hair all messed up from the explosion. Satisfied that his group is alright, he enters the fray. Smoke giving way to him and his raised gun. Shards of glass crunch at his feet, singed papers lay burned on the floorboards as embers flicker out in the air.

As the smoke clears out and the hot air of the south enters through the broken windows— Hobie finds no one inside the room.

“Fuck!” As he yells into the emptiness, a horse neighs outside, hooves running frantically away while bullets fly and ricochet. He immediately looks down, finding Hicks half burnt and riding away. “Like a fuckin’ roach.” Without thinking ahead, Hobie vaults from the window, softening his fall with a roll. Landing, knees aching but intact, he whistles for Bucky.

“Hobie, what the fuck?!” Riri and Karl simultaneously scream out, but Hobie's already running while Bucky follows right behind him.

Once Buckeye trots next to him, Hobie grabs hold of the saddle's horn to swiftly lift himself up on the saddle with a quick pull. No one's going to stop him, Miguel already considers Hicks dead just from the look of determination behind those green eyes.

Hobie leaves everyone in the dust. Bucky neighs wildly, huffing and puffing as he tries to catch up. “Hicks!” Said man turns on his saddle a few ways ahead, arm raising to aim and to shoot his gun. Bullets whizz past, hot air passing by as Hicks misses every single bullet.

Hicks’ scalding flesh makes him keel over in pain as his blood drenches his horse. “Shit!” He kicks roughly, his horse whines before speeding off.

Bucky gains speed, catching up to Hicks whilst he reloads. But of course, his hired guns finally catch wind. A handful of them appear from the side, trudging from the muddy swamp with alligators lurking underneath, and riding towards the bumpy road where the main chase is happening.

The rival posse hollars and hoots, sneering smiles and guns aimed at Hobie. Riri and the others are still catching up to him, so he's left alone to defend himself and Bucky. With fury fuelling him, he has everything to lose so he'll shoot through all of them like a hot knife through butter.

While the mercenaries leave the line of trees, Hobie enters the thicket, swerving to the side, using the large and sturdy trees for cover. The ground may be soft and muddy, but Hobie and his loyal horse have been in dozens of situations like this. The swamp might've slowed them down but it doesn't stop them as splintered wood flicks and flies while his enemies continue to shoot at his swift horse.

A bullet comes too close to his head, piercing a hole in the brim of his hat. He clicks his tongue, annoyed at the damage. Patting Bucky, he takes his foot off one of the stirrups to bring it to the safer side where no bullets could come at him. With two legs on one side, hand holding on to the saddle horn and reins, Hobie rides sideways, hiding his body while peeking over and shooting with calculated aim as Bucky runs back towards the path. One by one, the mercenaries fall off their horses with his bullets pierced through their bodies. The road is coated with their blood, leaving trails of rubies for his posse to follow.

Miguel trots closer, shooting at what remains of Hicks' men. The gang hoots at the sight, adrenaline rushing through their veins, and blood heating up from the violence.

While Riri and Karl have their eyes on Hobie, who now sits upright on Bucky, they kick on their horses and off they go, riding side by side with Him. Hicks panics from the sheer volume of horses running after him, with his last bullets, he aims at Bucky's leg.

Hobie beats him to the punch, quickly thrashing his whip made out of jagged metal wires, tearing the skin off of Hicks' arm apart when Hobie pulls hard at it. Hicks screams in sheer agony, tumbling and falling off his horse into the moist ground, soil entering his burns and mouth. When the dust settles, he looks up to only see the end of Hobie's gun.

It's silent in the marsh as the sun shines on his gun; frogs hum in the distance, gators trill when they smell meat while Hicks' labored breathing quickens. Hobie has his gun digging into Hicks’ skull, skin red and angry from his burns. Half of his face has melted into a mess of meat and bones, left eye barely opening from his melted eyelid. A pungent smell permeates from his oozing wounds, clothes torn and burned to ash, and ankle twisted at an angle. Hicks’ hands are buried halfway into the ground as he sinks down to the muddy plains.

Everyone thinks he should be dead by now, even Hicks himself, but death won't grant him the sweet release just yet— not until Hobie takes what he is owed.

“My, don't you look pretty, Hicks.” Hobie doesn't smile nor smirk at the sight of the man who buried him alive five years ago. A man who now kneels before him, disfigured beyond recognition, feeding the soil under him with his own suffering.

“F-fuck y-y-you.” Hicks' lips tremble from the unimaginable pain. “I w-will not b-beg.” He manages to curl half of his melted lips into one final sneer. “Not l-like how you did.”

“I don't want you to beg, Hicks.” Hobie digs the metal harshly, skin ripping and tearing like paper from under the gun. “I need to know where she is. You're dyin' anyway, your last words might as well be somethin' useful.”

Hobie's cold words makes the man scoff that quickly turns into a painful cough. “No. Didn't your old man tell you that revenge is a f-fool's game?”

“This isn't revenge, this is retribution.” Hobie tilts his head, looking behind Hicks where a pack of gators trill and show themselves under the green swamp. “If you tell me, I won't let the gators eat you alive.”

“Wha–?” Hicks' slowly turns his trembling head, skin painfully tugging with every movement. One of the gators snaps its maw, warning with its sharp teeth. The entire gang hears this grown man whimper from fear.

“They look mighty hungry, Hicks. Better hurry up.”

“You'd t-take me away from them?”

“No, I'd put you out of your misery before they get to you. Something you didn't give me back then.”

Hobie can practically see the rusty cogs in Hicks' head turning. “...alright, just don't let them eat m-me.” His burns flares up as he doubles in pain.

Hobie makes the man raise his head with the barrel pushing his chin up. “Sure.”

“She's at the big white house near Blackwater, just west of the r-road. You can't miss it.”

“You lyin’” Hobie doubts the information when he gave it to him too fast. Jaw tightening at the thought of you being so close yet so far from his reach.

“No, I'm not.” Hicks hears the unmistakable sound of the reptile crawling closer. “It's the truth.”

Riri flicks her eyes towards Hobie, leaning close, whispering lowly at his ear. “I know the place.” Hobie doesn't miss the hard look in her eyes. “He's not local, that place is well hidden, he wouldn't know that only the locals know about it.” She glares at the sniveling man, “It's ways away from the road he's talking about. Fucking far from it. Easily missed if you're not familiar with the place.”

Hicks figures out what she's whispering when Hobie's anger flares, hand tightening around his gun. “I'm telling the truth, Hobie. It's there and she's waiting for you! I promise! She's the one lying!” He points a crooked finger at Riri.

“Thought you wouldn't beg.” His fate is sealed with the gators. “Technically you did lie.” Hobie drops his arm, gun aimed away from Hicks. “Off you go with the gators, boss.”

“No, no, Hobie! Please, I'm sorry!” Hicks tries to grab at Hobie's leg, but Hobie kicks him down on the ground and on his back. He tilts his head back, meeting face to face with a ten foot alligator that seems to smile at him.

His screams echo around the marsh while Hobie and the others get on their horses. He watches the gator death roll the flailing Hicks on the muddied ground until the wailing stops completely.

Hobie leads the pack away while he leaves behind the sound of tearing skin and bones cracking under sharp teeth. And all he could think about is you, and how he could've had a good life with you.

—

Draped in chiffon and stab silk, iridescent blues and purples dance along the fabric as light hits it. Expensive fabric that hides all the aching blemishes on your flesh by the same men who claim that they are doing it for your sake, that it's the only way you would obey.

Your hands are tied behind your back with Cross' hand wrapped around your wrists in a sickening grip; preventing you from moving. You shine under the southern sun, all gold and frills but none of the happiness behind your sullen and dull eyes.

For a fleeting moment in those months you were with Hobie, you had peace. You'd stay there forever if you could, if only the world had granted it to you, instead of the pain that it brought down upon you.

You could've had a good life together.

It's been a whole month since the last time you saw Hobie alive. A whole month without hearing his voice, without his loving touch; and a whole month with the same family who has hurt you in every possible way they could. The image of Hobie buried under the rubble of your shared home spirals you over the edge once again. You've cried, wept and sobbed some more, but nothing has helped. You feel like you've died right next to him. You wish you had.

Meanwhile you have a wound that was never meant to be healed inside you. A wound that was momentarily healed, until you were brought back to the reality of your dreaded life.

You instinctively run your finger around the gold band around your finger, finding the unfamiliar diamond instead of the simple gold band that turns your face even more sour at the scalding heat that turns your heavy dress into an oven. You had the foresight to hide Hobie's ring the second you had a chance. It now lays underneath your floorboards waiting for you.

There's a heavy feeling in your chest, grief running along your heart, plunging your very being into darkness. It was like that day five years ago, you have no knowledge of him alive, no way of knowing if Hicks ended him. It's an awful case of déjà vu.

Both men stand beside you, as if they're meant to guard you. The estate stands behind you, its large shadow looming over you. All Its white marble and columns stand tall, doors that don't creak, windows pristine and gleaming— but you'd rather have the pile of ashes you once called home.

This place lacks a heartbeat.

You flick your tired eyes over to the well beside the estate, your body shivers from how cold it was inside, when you sank into it like stone the first time Hicks threw you inside. It's a miracle you didn't break your neck, in that moment, you wished it had.

A carriage arrives from a distance, horses galloping along the road towards the estate. Wispy cypress trees sit around the path, parting way for the dirt road leading to the house. Its soft leaves dance in the wind, leaves fluttering by as you watch the carriage get closer and closer.

“Remember to smile, we can't lose their money.” Hicks grabs the back of your dress, yanking your neck down for emphasis. “Don't be a bitch like last time or you'll get the well tonight. And I heard it'll be cold tonight.”

“I'll be in my best behavior, uncle.” Your glare towards the rich couple exiting the carriage says otherwise.

Hicks only gives you a stern look before letting you go. Cross loosens his grip for a moment and you immediately take your hands in front of you so he couldn't hold you again. You haven't spoken a word to the man you call husband since you arrived at the estate. Your defiance got your bedroom door locked from the outside for now but was taken apart for the first week of your stay. Showing you bare to the entire world, revealing to the world that you're his.

The woman clad in gold and gemstones huffs, flinging away a fly from her painted face. “God, I hate this humidity.”

“This better be good this time, Hicks.” Her husband takes his tophat off, wrinkling his nose at the scent of heat and damp marsh.

“You won't regret traveling for this, Mr. Burnell.” Hicks sucks up to the man. “My, don't you look lovely, Mrs. Burnell.”

She giggles, hiding the blush dusting her cheeks with a fan. “Oh don't be such a gentleman, Hicks.”

“Stop sucking up to my wife, Hicks.” Even though his smile tells you that it's a joke, his tone says that he's completely irked by your uncle. Perhaps this has happened before.

You roll your eyes subtly, Cross’ jaw tightens as he shakes hands with both guests. “It's a pleasure to have you both today.” He says flatly.

“An honour.” Your tone is tight, lips turned into a strained smile.

“I remember you,” the male Burnell smiles faintly at you. “And you too,” he points at Cross. “I was at your wedding, what a wonderful ceremony.” You clench your fists tightly around your lace gloves, almost tearing the fabric.

“Oh I also remember!” His wife claps, “your gown was lovely, and the deviled eggs were to die for!”

You laugh, a sound more akin to a scoff. “I should've had some back then.”

Mr. Burnell reaches for both of your hands, holding you gently as you make a face at him that doesn't quite reach the man's full understanding. “I'm sorry about your aunt, we sent flowers to the funeral. I hope it was to your liking.”

“I wouldn't know, I wasn't there.” You swallow thickly.

“Oh poor dear,” The woman touches your cheek, and you flinch away. She coos as if you're a child. “You couldn't even bear saying goodbye.”

“Sure,” you slide your hands away from the man's hold, and then you take her hand away from your skin. “That's why.”

Hicks inhales deeply, “why don't we go to the gazebo? Tea is being served there.” He takes their attention away from you.

“We came all this way and you don't even have lunch for us?” Mr. Burnell raises a thick brow, his wife agrees with a nod.

“We did.” Cross finally speaks through gritted teeth. “It got cold.” The couple flares their nostrils in annoyance.

“This place was hard to find.”

“You had us waiting for two hours. Hardly an excuse, Mr. Burnell.” Cross doesn't back down from the older man's stare.

“W-what my associate was trying to say was that— we didn't want to serve you all cold beef! No one likes cold beef, correct?” Hicks tries to save the day, but they don't respond. “There's deviled eggs in the gazebo.” That seemed to work as they followed Hicks towards the blue gazebo behind the house.

Cross yanks you back to his side before you could get far. Your chest tightens, threatening to stop your breathing as he whispers towards one of the estate workers to prepare a batch of deviled eggs immediately. The second they leave, you glare at Cross, refusing to touch him even though his fingers dig into your arm.

“Don’t run, Y/N.” He says for the umpteenth time. You would run, and you had a few times while you're with him. But you were only met with your cheeks burning into the shape of his palm, and his hired guns dragging you back inside the mansion with their lassos tied around your ankles.

“I can't even breathe in this dress, moreso run in it.” You try to take your arm back but he stops you with his nails dragging along your sleeves.

“Be good, be fucking obedient. Don't be impossible like you always were.” His green eyes remind you so much of Hobie that it taints his image in your mind. You refuse to let it fog his image.

“I am not a dog, Cross.” You fight back, why shouldn't you? You have nothing to lose now.

He comes close to your face, jade eyes reflecting the fear in your expression, breath wafting over your face. “Then don't act like one.” His eyes pass over your face, finding fear laced in between the creases of your expression. His tone softens, one that sends shivers down your spine. “Why don't you call me by my real name? Cross is our last name, Y/N. Can you call me—”

“No.” You yank yourself away even if it means that his fingers drag along your arm in a manner that makes your skin run cold.

The next thing you know you're sitting next to Mrs. Burnell, who swallows down deviled eggs like its water. The entire table is set all prettily, blue laces sitting under white porcelain, utensils draped in silver, and chairs soft whilst the gazebo with lilacs growing on the roof acts as your shade. A graveyard full of Cross’ ancestors lies just a few ways away from the gazebo. Withering gravestones left unattended, and overgrown grass drowning each of the carved names. It leaves a heavy presence in the back of your mind.

The fork in your hand shakes, silver shining in the sunlight bearing down behind you just as when a pair of red cardinals fly next to the gazebo. The murmurs of the marsh echoes around the estate, gators trilling a few ways away, birds chirping and cawing right next to croaking bullfrogs. You're surrounded by green with a dash of greed as Hicks continues to suck up to the rich prospective partners.

A hand cups your own, and for a flicker, you thought it was Hobie's calloused hand gently holding onto you until his nails jab into your palm. Cross gives you a hard look, gesturing for you to eat instead of staring blankly at the cakes in front of you. With a mocking smile, you take a glass of cold orange juice on your right, condensation drenching your ungloved hand. You don't break eye contact as you gulp down the entire glass, making the Burnells look at you with pinched brows. For the final touch, you exhale loudly as if you were thirsty beyond belief.

Hicks chuckles nervously, eyes darting from you to the rich couple. Cross is fuming silently, letting your hand go limp on the table. An employee comes to your side, refilling your glass as everyone at the table stays in awkward silence. You can't help but puff out your chest with pride. Hobie would've loved to see that. Their faces would be worth it for the wrath you're about to face.

Mr. Burnell clears his throat, “as I was saying, we can't give twenty thousand for only ten percent shares. It's daylight robbery, Hicks.”

“Oh come on, Quentin, you've known me for a long time!” Hicks plays the ‘old friend’ card, a trick you've seen one too many times. “You know I can be trusted, and that ten percent will go higher once we've had our foothold here in America.”

“I do know you, that's why you can't be trusted. Even her aunt knew better when she gave the company to her.” Burnell pauses, bespectacled eyes staring at you briefly. Your lips curl up into a smirk. You probably don't have to work too hard in sabotaging this one. “Besides, that was back when you were the leading manufacturer in the UK. There was a guarantee, now you're here in a country that is practically shitting bullets by the buckets.” He leans back in his seat, “face it, you old dog, there's no profit here for you.”

“He's right,” His wife enters the conversation, dabbing her mouth daintily with a handkerchief. “Why did you even move here in the first place? I heard the company was doing badly back home but not that bad, right?”

Hicks coughs, drinking from his glass, stalling from answering. Cross has had enough, he leans on the table, elbows right next to his untouched plate, white suit unblemished.

“Because I'm here.” He takes your hand, making a show of it for the Burnells. He's using the ‘I love my wife’ card. Surprisingly, it's only the second time he has used it on the rich and stupid. “And my wife deserves to be with her husband, yes?” The couple looks at each other, then returns their attention to you as you try incredibly hard not to vomit all over the table. “I've…ignored her for far too long while I'm always here tending to my own business.” He clasps the back of your hand with his free hand. “We were deeply saddened by her aunt's passing, but I saw a silver lining. Taking the tragedy and turning it into something better by bringing her and her family business here to my home so we could finally start having our own family here without the dark cloud looming over us.” He was right about one thing, your aunt was a dark cloud looming over everyone. Cross leaned close, pecking your hand chastely. “Right, love?”

You close your eyes to prevent yourself from heaving out what little you've eaten. “Right.” Tone small and disgusted, you have the sudden urge to stab his eyes out with a fork. For a second, your mind gives you that exact image. Seeing his blood spurt out from his sockets and spraying on the deviled eggs.

For some reason, even with the disgusted look on your face, the Burnells' hard exterior softens. The missus clutches the pearls on her chest as if she just heard the most romantic story, and the male Burnell nods along with a fond smile. “You two remind me of my first marriage.” His wife chuckles, you frown, eyebrows knitted together as Cross plays along to his concocted story.

They continue their negotiation with more enthusiasm. Hicks pats Cross gladly on the shoulder, already drafting up a contract on a piece of parchment. Thankfully, Cross has let you go. Free to wipe your hand on your dress. You replay the last minute in your mind, like you're stuck in the moment he touched you with his dry lips upon the same hand you used to cradle Hobie's face with.

The conversation fades into the background, a thought passes you by, one that you're too grief stricken to see until now. Why is Cross even helping Hicks? He has the money to fund whatever the factory needs, he doesn't even need to be in the conversation. He has nothing to gain from this. He already has you, so why does he seem so desperate to get this partnership?

Then it hits you, he's as bankrupt as Hicks. Hicks, who drove the company to the ground with his moronic decisions the second your great aunt was in the ground. And Cross, there was never a day in your short marriage with him that he wasn't out gambling his family fortune away, or going to exotic places you've only read in books. When he doesn't have his hands on you, he's at the nearest pub or the derby races, betting everything in his pockets. You always just thought he had that much money to lose. But you were wrong. And the only reason you're here is because of the money your parents have set aside for you, money that is tied up with the company or what is left of it— the company that you own and have the last say in. Until your name isn't written in that contract that Hicks shoves in your face every morning, they have nothing.

“You have nothing.” You blurt out, you don't regret it immediately.

“Excuse me?” Mr. Burnell says, offended.

“Not you, I know you have money.” You place your elbows on the table, chin propped up on your scarred palm. “I was talking about my dear uncle and beloved husband.” Your words drip with venom and sarcasm.

“What are you saying?” Mrs. Burnell asks, concerned, either for your well being with the two men or for the money she almost lost.

“Shut it, Y/N.” Hicks says through gritted teeth, eyes warning you.

“Don't tell a woman to shut up, Hicks.” Surprisingly, Mr. Burnell defends you. “Speak, girl.” And there goes your respect.

“They don't have anything.” Cross tries to yank your hand back but you quickly tug yourself away. “Hicks is lying, the company is losing money, not gaining it. Production has been down since they moved here, probably because Hicks doesn't know how to run a company.”

You continue your tirade without missing a beat. “He was a manager before marrying my aunt, but he was a shit manager. If not for Peter—” you inhale and clear your mind. “All I'm saying is, he's asking for a scapegoat for the debt collectors, not a business partner.” You flick your eyes mockingly towards the seething Hicks. Meanwhile, Cross sits quietly, you're afraid but you have to continue. “I retract my previous words.” Hicks inhales with relief. “It's not probably, it's definitely.” He stutters, trying to save face but you continue. “He's overworking the workers and because of that there's more mistakes. More mistakes means more bullets that come out a little crooked. That's good, if your targets swerve to the left.”

“She's lying!” Hicks laughs shakily, fists slamming down on the table. “You know how women are? She's hysterical because of her aunt's passing.”

You scoff. “You said it yourself, Mr. Burnell, you don't trust Hicks.” All eyes are on you. Your words fill you with pride, Hobie would be proud. “As for Cross, I wouldn't even trust him with my coin pouch.”

The Burnells seemingly believe you, heads turned slowly towards Cross and Hicks, eyes boring holes in their foreheads. “Looks like we wasted our time. You're right, honey, we should've gone for the Winchester instead of this clown show.”

“You believe me?” You ask, bewildered. “That quick?”

“We passed by the factory on our way here, that's why we were late.” Burnell answers back. Already taking his belongings to leave. “We saw the horrid conditions. We were naive to believe that it was like that because you're still getting used to the transition.” He helps his wife up as Hicks follows behind the couple. Cross stays behind silently while you stay with the Burnells in hopes that they'd take you with them. “Thank you, girl.”

“You're welcome, c-can I—” The couple gets in their carriage, eyes blinking at you. “Can I come with you?” You sound like a child, voice trembling in hope that they'll say yes. “Please.”

Hicks chuckles incredulously right next to them, but his eyes grow dark at your request, a warning. Cross appears behind you, green eyes hidden by the shadow of his hat, lips clamped into a fine line.

“What for, girl?” Mr. Burnell asks, “We don't need any more bootlicking. We're not giving you the money for the factory.”

You flex your fists on your sides, eyes darting in between Hicks and Cross. Heart thumping, you have to try. “I don't— it's not that. I don't need the money. I—”

“So you do have the money for the company then? Why bother asking us?” The older man cuts you off, scoffing while his wife rolls her eyes. “Kids these days, so greedy.” He gets in the carriage, following his wife.

“Wait! Please!” It's too late as they run off in the distance. In your desperation, you start to run after them. But before you could go far, Cross stops you with his arms embracing you from behind. “No! Please come back! They're hurting me here—!” Your flailing stops when Hicks steps in front of you with his gun raised.

“Do you have any idea what you've done?” He clicks the hammer down, finger right on the trigger. “You've doomed us.”

With tears in your eyes, Cross holds you against him tighter. Chest aching, breath stolen from you. “No, just you!” Yet, you continue to fight. You might've lost hope a long time ago if not for Hobie. Hope that you'll get out like last time, hope that Hobie will be there waiting for you. But there's a part of you that just wants to let go. Looking over your shoulder, you're met with familiar green eyes that used to fill you with calm. “And you.”

“I should shoot you right here.”

“Do it then. But you can't because without my signature you're fucking broke!” With a cackle, Hicks yanks the back of your head, taking you from Cross' arms, dragging you towards the well. Body scraping against soil, you try to scratch at his hands but it doesn't deter him as his anger fuels him.

“Fucking bitch, you keep ruining shit!” He yanks you to your feet, and then pressing your front to the mouth of the well while pushing you down harshly, making you look down at the depths.

You yelp, sharp rocks digging into your stomach, eyes forced to look down at the deep dark well. It's cold down there, you wonder if this is what it felt like for Hobie back at the farm. Staying quiet, your hands grip the sides to keep your balance, a bead of sweat falling down and leaving ripples as it hits the stagnant water.

“What, no begging or screaming and crying this time?” Hicks latches on your hair tightly, scalp burning from his hold.

“I've gotten used to the dark. You won't hear me begging ever again.” Your voice echoes down to the bottom. “You can't hurt me anymore, not in the way that matters.” Releasing your hold on the sides, you lean closer to the edge. Expecting the cold embrace and the familiar weightlessness, it doesn't come.

There's a scoff above before you're let go. “I have to correct your fuck up.” He seethes, giving your leg a swift kick as you lay your head on the stone. “Deal with her.”

“I'm not one of your employees, Hicks.” Cross challenges him.

“She's your fucking wife. You discipline her while I go to the factory. As for you,” he flicks the shell of your ear. “Your name better be on that contract when I get back.” You hear their continued bickering whilst you even out your breathing. Just like what Hobie would tell you.

After a rustle of clothing and dress shoes thumping on the ground, you fall on your knees, still clutching the well. Face hidden from Cross, he sighs, hand reaching towards you. Feeling the sickening familiarity of his hand wrapped around your arm, you instinctively flinch away.

“Why couldn't you just obey, just this once?”

You heave, furrows knitted in anger. Looking over your arm, your glare sends goosebumps up his arms. “I'm not one of your hounds.”

“Then why do you kneel like one?” The sun behind him engulfs his entire form, turning him into a breathing shadow.

“Go fuck yourself, Cross.” You shakily stand up while avoiding his gaze. Walking towards the house, you clench your fists until you feel your blunt nails leave pin pricks of crimson

“I'm trying here, Y/N. You're making it impossible.” He yanks you back, neck craned to the side to look at you. “I'm holding back but you're not making this easy.”

“You sound like this is all my fault.” You still avoid his eyes, forgoing to look at the tree behind him. “I'm not the one who gambled all your money away. And I didn't force you to marry me.” His fingers pull you closer.

“Look at me.”

“Fuck you—” you try to escape but he's stronger.

“Look at me just like how you look at him.” He forcefully turns your head with his hand burrowing into your chin.

With apprehension, you chuckle, a cracked dry laughter. Your eyes slowly move to the green eyes in front of you. “I'll never look at you like that. Nothing you do will make me look at you with the same love I give to him.”

Cross swallows thickly, jaw tightening. “Why him?”

“It felt right. We share the same heart.” It's the first truth you've said in a month, and for once you smile genuinely. “I'll always love him, remember that.”

He inhales, and you wait for the impact.

“Sir?” The housekeeper asks from the side, hands wringing in front of her. “Is everything alright?” Her brown hair shimmers in the sun like copper, lips turned into a fine line.

She reminds you of the former housekeeper that tried to help you by taking your letter addressed to Hobie. Cross found out about it, you haven't seen her since then.

“We're alright, Belinda.” Cross lets you go, leaving a mark on your arm. “Fetch me my hunting rifle.”

You leave with haste, hands shaking as you hitch your skirt up. You can feel his sickly green eyes on you, like a shadow that envelops you whole.

You've crossed the line, and you fear that this is the end for you.

—

Pacing around your room, you walk around and hold your breath. It's like waiting for the gallows, waiting for the bullet to hit you. Hobie's ring is back on your finger instead of what Cross gave you on your wedding day, which is the exact same one you left on the bedside table when you escaped. You twist it around your finger as the room shifts and twirls in your vision.

The room is finely decorated with daffodils painted on the walls, gold fixtures on the ceiling with painted deers trotting overhead on fields of green on the ceiling. The room looks like it used to be a child's room. A pale blue bed sits in the middle of the room, draped in a satin canopy. It's a stark contrast to the room back at the farm, all wood and none of the gilded walls. But you'd choose that a hundred times over if given the chance. Especially if Hobie's there waiting for you.

You feel like you're slowly disappearing into the walls.

Your eyes have been glued to the door as you chew your nails. You'd lock the doors from the inside if the locks weren't instead bolted from the outside. Tears brim at your eyes, but you refuse to let it go as you sniff. You miss your home, you miss the smell of dew in the morning. You miss Clover and how she cuddles on your side. You miss Cherry and Bucky and your afternoon rides with them. You miss him, you miss Hobie and how he holds you gently, how he talks to you about things. It's him talking so you'd listen and speak with him until the sun decides to sleep. You miss his voice telling you that everything will be alright.

You wonder if everything will still be alright when you hear heavy footsteps outside your door.

Cross doesn't knock, and you wait at the foot of your bed, standing straight, eyes forward and daunting despite your fear. If he shoots you through the door now, would Hobie be there to greet you on the other side as darkness engulfs you one last time?

This house will be a tomb. Your tomb.

The door doesn't creek as Cross opens it. “Hunt with me, just like old times.” He has a rifle strapped to his back, suit traded in for his haunting gear, still clad in white leather. Your eyes flick over to the two guns on his belt. If only you could take it from him. Or at least one.

“Giving me a gun? Do you think that's wise?” You cross your arms over your chest, clearing your throat so he doesn't notice the shaking of your voice.

“Why? You'd shoot me in the back?” He asks chidingly.

“In a heartbeat.” You say without even a hint of a joke. “What's even out there, Cross? What are we hunting down?”

“A deer.”

“I don't think there are any deer out here.” A dangerous silence hangs in the air, choking you as he stares deeply at you. You inhale, swallowing down your fear as best as you can. “If you give me a knife instead, I will stab your eye out. Killing other things won't keep us from killing each other.”

He clicks his tongue, hand on the gun like he's mocking you. “Take the dog instead.” Taking the leash off his belt he holds it out for you. “A dog for a hound. At least this one is loyal.”

“Which end of the leash is the hound?”

“What do you want, Y/N, hm?” Tossing the leash harshly, he stalks closer, and you flinch back. A doe caught in the coyote's eye. “I broke your heart, I get it. Do you want me to apologize to you?”

“My heart? That's the only thing you haven't broken yet.” He stops a few feet away from you, yet still too close to you. “You broke my body until I could barely recognize myself anymore. My arms bear the shape of your nails, my scalp remembers the sharp tugs of your hands.” You exhale as a tear falls down your cheek. “Hobie broke my heart, but he pieced it together, piece by tiny piece.” You point at him repeatedly. “You, you broke everything else.”

“If this is about your aunt—”

“Fuck you! This isn't about her.” If this is really your end, you don't want to leave without saying the words you've been meaning to say out loud. You tremble for a second before grinning with tears in your eyes. "I'm glad she's gone. Her hold on me is gone.” You chuckle breathlessly, sighing loudly. “There I said it. It's like a boulder has been lifted off my shoulders.”

“Y/N,” there it is, the patronizing tone he uses on you. He's about to guilt you into something you haven't had a hand in, or chastise you like a child.

“Stop being so fucking delusional, take the blinders off for one fucking minute.” The fire in you latches on you. “This is about you and how you hurt me the second you brought me home after the wedding. You knew that I never wanted to marry anyone else, and that my aunt and Hicks hurt me back home. And instead of helping me, taking me away from them, you joined them.”

“I got you out of there. I married you.”

You laugh without an ounce of humour, clapping wildly. “Well thank you very much, Cross!”

“I tried for a little while, Y/N. But I'm your husband, and you continued to disobey so I had to go to them, ask them for advice.” He walks closer, you stop him with a hand in front of you, as if it will shield you from him. You've tried that once, it didn't work.

“Nothing you do will make me forgive you. I hope you drown in your guilt if you even have an ounce of it. I hope you lay awake at night thinking of how much you hurt me. I'd rather die than forgive you.” Cross steps forward with an unreadable expression, and the back of your knees hits the bed as you try to get away. You eye the gun, you fear that you won't keep your promise to Hobie.

The world already ended for you when Hicks killed him.

Cross tries again. You think it'll be the last time he will the second he walks closer to you, so close that you can see yourself in his eyes. “Sign the papers, Y/N, and everything will be over.”

“You know the second I sign it, Hicks will kill me.” Your eyes wander towards his unlatched gun.

“I won't let that happen.”

You laugh in his face, “Sure, but you'll let him hurt me. Might as well sign my death warrant instead.” Standing back up, you inch towards him bravely despite your instincts telling you to shield yourself. You have to get that gun. “I–I tried to love you at first, and remained optimistic in this marriage.” His eyes are on your face, irises darting over your lips while you sneak your hand towards his gun belt slowly. “Even indulging my idiotic childish whims of what a marriage could be like. But I couldn't, not when you hurt me just like they did. Only because I didn't love you like how you thought I would.” Your hand finds the cold metal, fingers wrapping around the handle. “For a second there I thought you'd be my saviour, when in fact it was the opposite. You joined them instead. You were just as bad as them.”

You stand toe to toe with him. You hear a glass breaking downstairs, and then the smell of something familiar. Snatching the gun quickly, you aim it at his stomach, steel meeting flesh. You feel the same sensation against your chest.

“I love you.” Cross utters, finger right on the trigger.

“I've seen love, this isn't it.” With your cold words, you shoot.

Both guns go off.

Both hitting their targets.

—

The sun is just beginning to set, orange peeking from the horizon, hues of pink and orange blanketing the three men. Each inhale from the cigarette perched in each of their lips has grey smoke filtering through their lungs. They should be guarding the front door like they were hired to do, instead they chainsmoke their way out into an early grave while hiding behind the estate, facing the vast green marsh that hides their debauchery from the rest of the world.

“You hear any cryin’ last night?” The one with an auburn beard asks, his rifle leaning against the wall right next to him instead of in his hand like it was supposed to be in.

A dark haired man answers, belching out smoke while crouched on the ground, eyes narrowed at the whispering willows. “Yeah, i think the stable boy wasn't lying, there's a fuckin' ghost here.”

“You two think it's a fucking ghoul or some shit?” The third one replies with a scoff, blonde hair peeking out from his hat as he takes a swig of moonshine.

“Yeah,” The first two responds, spine tingling when a cold breeze passes through them.

“It's the boss’ wife, not a ghost, you morons.” As the yellowed haired man responds, a bright flicker of light appears in between the willow trees. “What the fuck?” The two men next to him follows his terrified gaze, cigarettes falling off their lips.

The light moves, as if it dances in the wind. It flickers, brightening up into an orange glow before turning yellow once again. The three outlaws move from the wall, eyes glued on the mesmerizing ball of light.

“Fuck, it's a swamp ghost—” the one with the red beard gasps, choking on his own blood, frantically trying to stop his neck from gushing out ichor with a knife stuck to his throat.

The other two only had a split second to react before a sharp knife slashes at their exposed necks. They mirror each other, shirts stained with red, palms coated in warmth and crimson while they frantically try to stop the bleeding. They croak and creak out, eyes managing to fall upon hazel eyes, and one with his face covered in soot. They both hold a glinting knife, blood still trickling down from the steel.

Miguel leaves from his hiding place in the thicket, eyes flicking briefly towards their twitching forms before returning his gaze at the ball of light. He nods to Riri and Karl, who stand above the corpses. And then he gestures with his gloved hand, giving the warm light a small nod.

The light comes closer, footsteps echoing as boots sink in moist soil— appearing behind the darkness of the trees and into the fading light of the sun. Hobie's face is revealed behind the light with a lit cigarette in between his lips, shadows dancing around the fury behind his green eyes hidden by the brim of his hat. He inhales before flicking the cigarette away, falling into a puddle. More appear behind him, trees and bushes parting before the dozen men and women following in his steps.

“Karl, light the oleander for me will you?” Hobie tosses the bag of pink flowers in Karl's waiting hands. And then he takes his knife back from the auburn haired corpse, wiping it on the grass before sheathing it back on his belt.

“D’you think that'll work? What if she gets caught in it?” Riri whispers, gesturing for the gang to crouch down and hide beside the wall where the trio were last seen smoking.

Hobie drags one of the bodies, hiding it behind the bushes while the rest of the gang help with the other two. He follows Riri, blood rushing in his ears, adrenaline pumping through his veins at how close you are from him. It's only a matter of time before you're back safe and sound.

“She knows the smell, she'll cover her nose.” His voice doesn't waver, but his insides are turning and twisting inside him. He can't fail. “As for everyone, cover your damn noses, and protect your eyes as much as you can.”

“This won't kill us right?” Karl weighs the bag in his hands.

Miguel checks his bullets beside him, giving Hobie and Riri a once over if their weapons are lacking. “At most it'll make us sick and itch. Right, Hobie?”

“Just don't inhale it directly.” Hobie yanks his bandana up to his nose, fitting it snugly. He notices his hands shaking, closing his fists tightly, he cannot fail. A month of tracking you down can't end with him failing to save you, he can't lose you. “You know what to do, Karl. Ri go with him.”

“Hobie,” she clasps the back of his fist. “Be careful, alright? If you get hurt, call Roberto, he'll treat you.” Inhaling sharply, she pats his cheek. “Get her back but don't die on us, alright?”

Hobie couldn't look directly at Riri, “She goes first, Ri.”

“I know, that's why we brought Roberto with us, remember? He's the doctor, he knows what to do and…what to expect, if need be.”

Hobie nods, staring at his family. “Thank you for backing me up, I owe you. All of you.”

“Don't die and we're even, Hobie.” Miguel pats Hobie's bicep before heading to his designated position.

“What he said,” Karl smiles brightly, fist connecting to Hobie's clenched one gently. “Also if I don't return from this, Robbie's gonna fucking kill you, man.”

Hobie cracks a smile. “Yeah, I know. Try to stay alive for the both of us then.” Karl makes his way towards the front while Riri staggers behind, still holding onto Hobie's hand. “Just like Valentine, right?” Riri smiles, hiding her trepidation behind her bandana. He fixes the cloth over her face carefully, tugging it over her nose and ears. “Keep that snug.” She could only nod, eyes brimming with tears. “Don't die on us too, Ri.” With a quick embrace, she leaves, following behind Karl who was waiting for her.

Hobie takes a second to breathe. He has done things like this a hundred times before, but never with you on the line. He can't leave without you like last time. He won't cower behind wooden walls like last time, he's not gonna stand here and tremble and rot and bleed. He's going to get you back. He knows he will.

There's a gunshot echoing inside the estate just as when a glass window breaks, signaling the beginning of the end.

—

The house falls and chaos reigns. They tried to stick to their plan of using stealth, but of course someone saw them and alerted everyone in their presence. Karl got the oleander thrown inside the halls, puffs of pinkish fumes swell out from the bag. Hobie sees the result of it as black smoke turns the estate into the pits of hell. Hobie's eyes waters but he continues to strike anyone who wasn't on his side. He throws his spiked whip towards someone who tried to shoot at Karl, the barbed whip rakes and breaks skin as he tugs and pulls until the man falls down next to his shredded flesh.

Screams echo around the estate, his posse lets go of the innocent unarmed employees while the others aren't so lucky the second they aim back.

They try to fight their way inside, finally thinning the outlaws outside as flames trickle from the burning bag towards the velvet curtains. Embers climb up until they hit the ceiling, fire licking at the once white walls, leaving burn marks in its wake.

A few of the hired guns surrender after recognising Miguel's gang, some were fools who tried to shoot them down but his allies were in greater numbers. More experienced, more bloodthirsty than the hired guns.

All the winning cards are in his hand, all he needs to do is play them right.

“Miguel!” Hobie yells while he and three others try to push through the main doors that refuse to budge open.

Miguel, who was currently brawling with a man taller than him, grunts when a fists harshly connects at his jaw. Hobie curses under his breath, without wasting a second, he aims and shoots. Gunpowder fills his lungs once more as the burly man falls on top of Miguel in a thud.

Hobie stalks towards Miguel, he shoots someone who was aiming at him on his left, his bullet doesn't miss even without him looking at the target. He grabs the body by its vest, yanking it off Miguel.

“Get up,” he reaches for the breathless gang leader, hazel eyes smiling at his old friend.

“I had that, Hobie!” Despite his broken nose, Miguel is back on his feet the moment he takes Hobie's helping hand. “Retirement, huh?”

Hobie shakes his head with a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Fuckin' retirement.” Reloading his gun, he goes back to the locked doors with Miguel now in tow. “On three!” His shoulders meet with the oak, “one!” Miguel nods next to him, bracing himself on the door. “Two!” A few more join in, ready to push the moment he says, “three!”

The doors burst open, splintering wood scattering, smoke coming out into the fray. Hobie meets with Sheriff Lee's eyes before a bullet hits him directly on his shoulder.

“Fuck!” He falls on his knees, clutching his wound as blood seeps through his fingers.

“Should've left when you had the chance, Mr. Brown!” Lee taunts, reloading his hunting rifle, giving Miguel enough time to drag Hobie back outside and placed behind the wall. “Come back here, murderer!”

A few shots ring out, both parties exchanging bullets. Your face appears in front of him before it’s replaced by the doctor's face. He needs to get you out quickly before the oleander takes hold. Hands tie a bandana around his wound, Hobie stands up the second that the cloth is tightened.

“Keep that on!” Roberto yells above the booming gunfire. “I’ll fix you properly right after this!”

Hobie nods, blinking the haze away. Miguel shakes him awake while avoiding his injury. “Lee's down! We'll handle the rest down here, we heard that she's upstairs.”

“Okay,” Hobie inhales and exhales, I'm almost there, love.

When the bullets stop flying inside the now bullet ridden manor, he steps foot inside. Glass crunches at his feet, eyes darting and alert from any surprises. He sees bodies littered on the marble floors, both from his side and Lee's. The sheriff lays under a pile of broken vase, eyes wide open, fingers still enclosed around his gun. The smoke thickens, and he hears blasts reverberating around the house.

Miguel's posse storms the place, pocketing whatever shines inside the house. A few more bullets are shot from deep inside the walls, but it's clear who's the winner. Hobie just wants you back.

Just as when he's about to climb the winding stairs with his throbbing shoulder, he sees a man stagger out from a room. “Is that—?” The bloodied man in the hunting gear trips and falls off the railing, plunging down right next to where Hobie's standing.

Cross lays on his own puddle of rubies, a gaping hole in his stomach instead of his insides. “H-help me,” Begging, he looks at Hobie with his bloodshot eyes, reaching towards Hobie's leg with his broken hand. “She's upstairs. Y-you can have her.”

“Is that him?” Miguel asks, and Riri appears from the side. Eyes watching the wounded man. Hobie nods, eyes never leaving Cross.

Hobie aims at Cross' head, seething. “She is not a thing to be had.” His aim stays true, but he shakes his head, lowering his gun down. “Nah, I'll let her bullet kill you.”

Miguel smirks, while Riri and him have a silent communication. “Don't worry, Hobie, we got rich boy.” He takes out his lasso from his waist, crossing the distance towards the dying Cross.

Riri gestures for Hobie to continue up the stairs. “Go! We'll be waiting.”

With a grateful nod, Hobie runs up the stairs towards his fire and his light. His heavy footsteps echo, breathing staggered as he thinks of you. What if he finds you in the same condition as Cross? What would he do if he sees you bleeding out? So he runs despite his own injuries, to see you again, to hold you again.

He follows the blood trail once he gets close enough, instead of your smiling face greeting him back, he stares at your body covered in crimson. Soft blue bed sheets stained with dark rubies. Arms spread on the bed as you lay on the soft mattress with your eyes unblinking towards the ceiling.

Hobie calls for you, air sucked from his lungs with every step he takes. He reaches for you, tears turning you into a watercolor painting in his vision. Red and blues blending into a watery picture.

You feel like you're in the bottom of a well, staring up at your aunt's sneering face. Your breathing is labored while the bullet is stuck in your chest, right below your ribcage. There's no pain, no feeling in your fingers as you see Hobie's face appear from above. Head perfectly lined up with the deer antlers painted on the ceiling.

“Found the deer, Cross.” You murmur, eyes hazy, lips barely opening.

“Stay awake, love.” Hobie's hand trembles as he rips his bandana off to stave off the bleeding by plugging the wound. You cry from the sudden pain, hands flying towards his wrists. “‘m sorry, ‘m sorry.” His tears flow down your cheek. “This'll be over, I need to carry you.”

“Hobie?” Your eyes focus on his face, meeting with his viridescent eyes. “Are you real?” Nails dig into his flesh, you sob, fingers shaking whilst you reach for his face. The pads of your fingers brush along his jaw, stubble returning you back to reality. “I'm so s-sorry, I should've told you.”

“None of that.” He holds onto the back of your hand, letting your palm rest on his cheek, lips brushing along your wrist. The matching rings reflect the growing fire ebbing towards the room.

“It h-hurts, Hobie.”

Sniffing, burning wood enters his lungs, sobs threatening to pull him down to you. “I know, I know.” He wipes the tears and the sweat off your forehead. “But we need to move, love, there's a fire and I need to carry you down.”

You gaze at his green eyes, sorrow and grief twisting and turning behind them. They remind you of home, of Clover, of Cherry and Bucky. And you remember your promise to him, an impossible promise that you will try to keep. But if it means that it's his end too, you have to break it. For his sake.

You grip his shoulders, Hobie notices how weak your hold on him is. “Okay, okay, carry m-me down.” There's a taste of copper in your mouth, lips coated in the bitter taste.

He nods, wiping his tears with his sleeves before sliding his hand behind your back, finding your warm blood sticking to the bedsheets. “I got you.” Whispering against your crown, he lifts you up mere inches away from the bed before you scream in agony. “‘m sorry!” He cries into your hair, your grip weakening even more.

“W-we can try again.” You slide your palm to his nape, “try again, Hobie.”

Hobie flicks his eyes towards you, the light behind your eyes is starting to dim. “Help!” He yells in desperation at the door, in hopes that someone comes bounding up the stairs. “Riri! Miguel! Anyone!”

Your heart breaks, “Hobie, Hobs.” Patting his chest, it's getting harder to breathe. “L-leave. Leave me here.” Hobie's already shaking his head. You smile softly at him, the best you could do despite your body dying. “You have to, you can't die here.”

“And you do?” He cups your face, “we still have forever to go, remember?”

He doesn't want you to come back as a dream anymore, or a shadow embracing him from behind; or a pain in his chest when he hears your name in his mind. He doesn't want your ghostly kiss to taste like ashes on his lips.

He doesn't want you to go.

“I'm sorry, I can't keep my promise. B-but you still can.” You weakly push down at his nape to feel his forehead against yours one last time. Your eyes are starting to close. “Live for me, would you?”

“No, please.” His palm slides right above your heart, feeling your heartbeat slow down. One last time, he yells for help. His throat burns as the ceiling above is engulfed in flames. No one comes to help. “I have to break my promise too, love.”

“Don't, please.”

“A life lived without you isn't a life well lived, remember?”

You accept death in his warm embrace. “I'll see you in a bit then.”

Flames engulf the room in its fiery destruction. Paint melting off the walls, wood and glass cracking under the pressure. And yet, he still holds on to you, lips pressed on your cold lips in a fleeting goodbye.

“Hobie!”

—

In the middle of nowhere sits the remnants of a farm with clovers growing all around it. Vines snaking along what remains of the farm house, and in those vines, pink hydrangeas grow and thrive amidst the cinders. And behind those darkened wood sits two graves with clovers growing on top of the soil. Two names are etched on simple limestone graves, they bear the same last name and same date of death.

Many travelers pass through the place without ever knowing the story behind the two graves. Seasons come and go, flowers bloom and wither. But only a few ever knew what used to stand on the emerald farm. What used to grow, what colour the house was, and who used to live in it. Stories were whispered and told but only a few truly knew the story behind it, few who came and visited and placed flowers on each of the graves.

And in those few, only three of them know that the once abundant farm where two graves were dug right under an oak tree, are empty.

The stories and the graves were enough to fool anyone left that wants to hurt either one of you to turn back and lament.

The true story lies behind the northern border, where pine trees grow up to the skies. Where snow and ice envelops the whole place. Where the two names etched on the gravestones in the empty farm now live.

“Stop bullyin’ your brother.” The dappled foal yelps, trotting away from his much bigger older brother. The dark horse with white splotches turns his bright blue eyes towards Hobie, huffing and puffing like an annoyed teenager. “Don't huff at me,” great, now he's the one talking to horses. “Go tell your dad not to have any more kids. Not my problem, junior.” The young horse rears, running towards the barn where Buckeye and Cherry sleeps.

Hobie leans on the fence, watching the sunrise on his expansive land. Horses and foals run around freely, feeling the cold gust of wind in their manes. A few sheep roam the grounds, while a pair of cows chew their way towards the fences. Snow-capped mountains rise up high in the background, white snow dusted along the rocks like sugar. While the trees dotted along the mountainside makes for the perfect scenic view. He pulls at his jacket closer to himself, fur tickling his nose as he breathes out puffs of smoke from the cold temperature. Winter’s coming, he can feel it in his joints as another breeze rolls in. He smiles in contentment when the air carries the sound of ducks quacking from their coop, and the smell of morning dew passing by. No more does the smell of fiery gunpowder graze his senses, and no sounds of bullets firing ringing in his ears.

He keeps his hat snug on his head, Clover runs by with her litter of puppies tugging along. And he feels you before you arrive by his side. A smile tugs on his lips, hand already reaching for your waist.

“What are you thinking about, cowboy?” You flutter your eyelashes, chin placed in his shoulder.

“That I have it good, too good.”

You give him a tender smile, leaning to kiss his jaw. “None of that. This isn't too good for you, you deserve all of this.”

“Too early to wallow, huh?” Hobie wraps his arm around your waist to pull you closer, and then he twists around to face you fully, back leaning on the fence, admiring you in the bitter blue of dawn.

You find penchants on his sternum, nose nuzzling his scar. “So fucking early.” He laughs, music to your ears.

“Hard to get used to, huh?”

“Kind of, it's a good feeling though, waking up.”

“You feel okay, right?” His palm pats your chest gently where a scar lies. “No breathlessness? Nothin'?”

You sniff at the cool wind, “nothing, I'm fine, Hobie.” You cup his cheek, jaw rounded at the edges, scruff tickling you, he looks as if time hasn't passed. “Nothing to worry about.” He leans towards your touch, fingers bracelet around your wrist gently, lips meeting your skin. “You okay?”

“Never better, love.” His green eyes twinkle, free arm pulling you impossibly closer. “Especially today.”

You tilt your head playfully. “What's today exactly?”

“Cheeky,” he pokes your side. “You know what day it is.”

You feign realization. “Ah! I remember now, Riri and the gang are coming over.”

“Yes, and?” He grins, biting his lower lip, jade eyes crinkling at the corners. Seeing the matching rings on your finger and his own makes him smile wider.

You suck in your teeth, acting like you're thinking. “It's Bucky's birthday?” Hobie rolls his eyes with a chuckle, and you finally relent. “I know what day it is.” You lean away, taking out a letter addressed to Hobie from your pocket. It's filled with affectionate words, loving thoughts and everything in between. It's a love letter just for him. “Happy anniversary, Hobs.”

Hobie's chest fills with a sense of belonging, heart full with his love for you. He keeps the letter in his coat pocket, right above his heart. “Happy anniversary, lovie.” He pulls you back, you giggle as your palm hits his chest, fingers snaking up to his nape to guide him towards your waiting lips.

“Forgot something, cowboy?” You say against his lips, and he nudges your nose with his own.

You feel something grazing against your chin, and when you flick your eyes down, you see a letter written in his hand, addressed to you. You tamp down your excitement, snatching the envelope, giving it a peck and tucking it inside your jean pocket.

“Never, read it together like always?” He pecks your warm lips once, then twice before indulging himself in your warmth.

“Yes,” you utter, breathlessly. “But inside, your tea, and the girls are waiting.”

Hobie chortles, kissing you again before reluctantly pulling away. “They're awake?”

“They smelt breakfast.” You inhale, letting his sandalwood and mint scent waft over you with ease. “If you hurry, there might still be some left for you.” You begin to walk away, hand grasping his palm.

“Alright, just one more then we'll go.” He pulls you back to his chest gently as you giggle atop his lips. He kisses you like he did all those years ago.

In the middle of nowhere, his story begins. And in the middle of nowhere, his story ends with you.

A/N: Thank you so much for sticking around this long! Our beloved cowboy is finally happy and at peace 🥺 If you loved reading OPIN please consider reblogging ❤️

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