#source: fives just died and he deserved better
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
leofromsomewhere · 17 days ago
Text
clone wars high school au but the events of the show are actually happening in the d&d club
2 notes · View notes
auspicioustidings · 11 months ago
Text
Ae Fond Kiss - Part 2
Love in the Guise of Friendship
Summary: 6 months pass and you learn to deal with your grief with help from an unexpected source. Words: 3.2k TWs: allusions to suicidal thoughts
Parts: 1 2 3
13 days after the world ended
“Please take him.”
You were a terrible mother. You couldn’t even hold your own son. You hoped as Joseph cried and Kyle took him and tried to soothe him that someone would come and take the baby away from you. You didn’t deserve to have something so precious when every time you held him you wanted to throw up. A few times you had, putting him down quickly and diving for the toilet. Head leant on the toilet seat, sweaty hair sticking to it and looking at the little thing on the hard tiled floor whose eyes belonged to a spectre, you sometimes wished you would do the right thing and just die already so someone better could take him. 
Kyle had stayed in your flat since the world ended. Johnny’s mother had wanted to and it was a small mercy that she hadn’t pushed. The idea of her being there made you want to lay down and let the earth swallow you up. You hadn’t seen Price although the groceries that arrived every few days had his name next to the order. Nothing at all from Ghost. You wondered if he found you disgusting. Sometimes it felt like he could see right to the heart of you. Sometimes it felt like he had seen the ugliness when your baby had died, and then he had seen it when your husband had died, and now he knew that you were wretched and unfit for love. You half expected him to show up in the night to take Joseph away.
“Come on little man, can’t be giving your mum such a hard time. If this is what you’re like now you’ll drive her right mental when you start teething.”
Fuck. The sob that came out of you was a broken and pathetic thing. It was just that Johnny had said something similar when you had first taken Joseph home. As it did at least five times a day, the grief smothered you so entirely that Kyle had to steer you into the nest of blankets and pillows you had built yourself on the couch. He was staying in the bedroom with Joseph right now. You couldn’t go in there yet. You didn’t know when you would be able to. 
“It’s ok, we’ll try again tomorrow yeah?”
You managed a limp nod as you burrowed into the bedding that had stopped smelling like cosiness among a winter pine forest a week ago. You would try again tomorrow.
23 days after the world ended
“She can’t be on her own.”
Simon had hoped that you’d be at least a little better by now. You’d never be ok, he more than anyone understood that, but you would learn to live again. You hadn’t seen him since that horrible night. The 141 never officially attended the family funeral, they had taken a portion of the ashes and held their own memorial for their fallen brother. But Ghost had seen you, had been there in the shadows keeping watch.
He had near threatened to quit if Gaz wasn’t given leave to stay with you. He had asked him to, although he suspected he might have done it anyway. You needed someone and after seeing how you had paled speaking with Johnny’s family he had made arrangements. Mrs MacTavish hadn’t been happy to stay away, but he was blunt when he told her that despite her best intentions, being around Johnny’s family would break you right now. He was steadfast in his belief that there was still enough of you left to break.
“Garrick…”
“Don’t Garrick me Lieutenant. You… you’re better at this kind of thing than I am. Stop being a prat and get over here, she needs you right now.”
“We don’t even like each other.”
“You don’t have to. You understand each other, that’s enough.”
He knew that Gaz was right. If anyone understood this sort of all encompassing grief, it was going to be him. He had already pulled you back from it once before. But it was different this time. This time his own grief was choking him and if he added it to yours he was scared it would kill you both. 
It was selfishness that had kept him away this long. Gaz was grieving too and he had been left with the responsibility of keeping your head above the water in the sea you had made of your sorrow. He had stayed by your side even when his own support system was waiting for him in his London flat. He had met Gaz’s partner a few times, he knew they would be there to soothe him like he needed. But because Ghost was a fucking coward, instead his Seargent (the one he hadn’t let fucking die in his arms) was with you. Only now the cracks were starting to show and Gaz needed to be home before he splintered entirely under the weight of it all. 
“Ghost?”
“Ok. I’ll be round tomorrow.”
30 days after the world ended
“You have got to be kidding.”
There was no way that the big scary man in the balaclava, that you still hadn’t seen him without despite your best efforts, was this hopeless at cooking. 
“S’too fucking long! Or your pot isn’t big enough!”
Oh God he sounded so unlike himself right then. Gone was the gruff, smug bastard and in his place was, dare you say, someone embarrassed. And he damn well should be in honesty. What grown man couldn’t even make spaghetti? All the pasta noodles had a section of scorching from where they had been left laying against the edge of the pot. There was a startling sound in the air, one you had forgotten existed. His eyes were wide as it carried through the room. It took you a moment to parse the sound. It was coming from you. You were laughing. 
His wide eyed surprise quickly giving way to a glare over the fact that you would dare laugh at his expense only made you laugh harder, clutching at your stomach with one arm and wiping frantically at your watering eyes with the other. 
“Big scary skull man defeated by Italian food!” you wheezed, your entire body clinging to the feeling of giddy lightness at this moment. “Is that why you wear it? Hiding the mortification from being outdone by” you paused to read the packet and the ridiculousness of it only made you laugh hard enough to be snorting like a pig, “Fedelini number 10!”
Ghost nearly ripped off his balaclava right there and then to prove he was not in fact mortified which would have been a disaster considering his logical brain was certain his cheeks and ears were burning red, but little Joseph rescued him from the further humiliation when he gave a happy gurgle from his high chair that had you scooping him up. You were laughing and cooing at him as you showed him the burnt pasta, telling him about the big scary skull man who was hiding his face for fear of reprisal from every Italian on the planet.
It was the first time you had held him without those storm clouds in your eyes and that awful rigidity from all the tension swimming through you. He was struck terrified for a moment that he would fuck up and this fragile happiness would shatter, but when you turned to him, making fun of him through the baby, his mouth was moving before he could overthink it. 
“Your ma’s a brat Joe. She forgets that I saw her attempt at a birthday cake.”
“It was avant garde! And it was still delicious!” you said with a gasp of outrage that he would dare to bring up the great birthday cake disaster of 2021. 
“You know he only told you that to spare your feelings, right princess?”
You pressed Joseph to your chest with a hand to his ear, feigning blocking him from hearing such slander. 
“This is why the universe messed up your hearing J, to protect you from all these lies coming from casper over here.”
The pasta was thrown out and you ordered in (Italian of course). Now that you could hold Joseph without your gut roiling you found you didn’t want to stop, but you still paused at the bedroom door and passed him off to Ghost instead. He didn’t push it, not tonight, not after you had laughed and held Joe and not drowned at the mention of something Johnny had said. Soon though. He was getting you back into a proper bed soon.
2 months after the world ended
Price was staying out of it although taking great amusement in watching it happen (even if his heart felt like it was in a woodchipper watching the biggest two casualties of his war). Joseph in his arms was happy to tug at his beard and not too concerned about the fight happening. 
You were like a fucking feral cat is what Ghost thought as you kicked your legs and battered your fists against his back. He didn’t really think about it when he laid a spank on your ass causing an indignant squawk from you. Maybe if either of you were willing to see one another as anything but enemies it might have caused an entirely different reaction.
“You put me down you fucking animal!”
“Language princess, little ears listening.”
Oh he thought he was hilarious clearly since you both knew Price had turned off Joe’s hearing aid the minute this started kicking off. You thought otherwise. Stupid bonehead didn’t have a funny bone in his body. Prick.
“I’m not bloody sleeping there!”
“Yes you bloody are!”
He had coaxed you into the bedroom over the last few weeks, but despite his efforts you still wouldn’t sleep in the bed and he had completely run out of patience. Compassion had been fully overruled by annoyance. You were an absolute pain in his arse and it was driving him crazy that you would be so stubborn about this. 
Plus he was starting to get antsy about sleeping on the bedroom floor. Since you were on the couch he couldn’t take that, and even though the bed smelled faintly of Gaz which would have been fine, the first time he had laid down in it the bottom pillow still held a whisper of whiskey in front of a fireplace, frosted pine trees perfuming through a window. So he had slept on the floor and not told you. Then he had just sort of kept doing it. 
“Jesus fuck woman!” he hissed when your nails dragged up his back as he crossed the threshold to the bedroom. 
“Should’ve wore your fucking kevlar if you were intending on getting into a fight with me. I’m going to rip you apart casper.”
He laughed as he grabbed your hips and up ended you over his shoulder and onto the bed, an offt coming from you as you bounced. You hadn’t been on this bed since the world ended. The thought of it would floor you. It had taken a monumental effort to even be in the room. Ghost had only convinced you with the fact that Joe slept better with the crib in the bedroom and needed his mum to put him down for naps and sleeps.
Only now all the panic you usually felt in this room, all the horror of the idea of being in this bed, was crushed under the weight of your fury at this idiot’s smug eyes looking down at you. Not on your life would you let him win a fight. Just because he was a lumbering giant with bad taste in masks did not mean he could take you on. So instead of hyperventilating and crawling off the bed to curl up on the floor and cry, you lunged to throttle him. 
When the growling and yelling stopped a minute or so later Price peeked into the room to make sure you hadn’t actually killed one another to find both of you in the bed, your back to Simon’s chest with his legs pinning yours and his arms holding you lightly in a sleeper hold. Not enough to significantly cut off your oxygen, but enough to immobilise you and have you silently simmering with rage at being caught. 
There were red lines down Simon’s arms, claw marks. Your hair was a mess, mussed and wrecked from what must have been a savage wrestling match. Was that…? Price laughed as he bounced Joseph.
“Better hope she isn’t rabid Simon.”
“He started it” you grumbled, maybe a little chagrined now faced with the reality of Captain John Price seeing teeth marks on his soldier’s forearm. 
Joseph perked up and chubby little hands flailed as he reached toward you. Price sat down on the edge of the bed to hand the little bundle of trouble over into your arms, Ghost’s hold loosening as his legs released yours and his arms dropped, hands finding a comfortable position lightly resting on your hips.
Neither of you put any conscious thought into the position, you sat between his legs, almost leant back on his chest with the baby cooing happily in your arms as Ghost waggled his eyebrows over your shoulder. You were both content to just lay all your attention on the most perfect baby to have ever existed and his beautiful eyes. 
The woodchipper whirred violently.
4 months after the world ended
You didn’t know what was more startling about the fact that Ghost had just burst into the bathroom with Joseph in his arms, the fact that you were naked in the bath or the fact that you could see Simon Riley. 
He sort of lived with you now, neither of you willing to be the first to voice that you were doing a lot better these days and probably didn’t need someone living in to make sure you didn’t go off the deep end. You thought Kyle was going to say something about it last time he visited, but he seemed to think better of it and kept quiet. 
But in all that time you had never seen him without his mask. You had caught glimpses of a strong jawline when he ate, seen clear eyes when he stopped putting eye black on them a few weeks back. Strangely after wanting to trick him into letting you see him, you had ignored the chance of it a week ago. He had been leaning over the crib and you caught a glimpse of skin that told you he had his balaclava off. Only you didn’t walk in. You don’t know why you didn’t. Instead you quietly left the room again and stood by the wall outside, covering your mouth to smother an unexpected sob when you heard the soft sound of a lullaby being sung.
He was a wild and twisted sort of handsome (not that he hadn’t told you several times he was good looking, for such a large and intimidating man he was actually a bit of an arrogant, smug tosser once you got to know him). The scars didn’t really make you flinch, you were married to Johnny after all and while his face wasn’t too badly marked up outside of a few knicks and small lines he had plenty of gnarled scar tissue around his body. You had been married to him. His face hadn’t been too badly marked.
“Ok, hang on, let’s do it again for mum Joe.”
Simon looked almost crazed as he stuck his tongue out at your son, seemingly not bothered in the slightest that you were still very much completely naked in the bath. You would have screamed at him to get out, only as he started screwing up his nose and crossing his eyes J laughed and any concern about your state of dress or his rude interruption died in your throat. 
“Oh… oh my God! Fuck wait where’s my phone! Can you do it again J? Is Simon’s face funny?” you cooed, nearly sliding and cracking your head open as you rushed to your feet and lunged out of the tub to get your phone from the counter so you could make sure you had video evidence of this moment forever. 
Both an unmasked Simon and a dripping wet and naked you cooed and made silly faces and laughed along for the next 10 minutes before Joseph decided he was well and truly tuckered out from practising his new talent and conked out on Simon’s shoulder. 
Only without the excitement of baby’s first laugh did you both realise the situation and blink in shock at one another. Simon’s eyes flickered briefly over you, and absolutely ass that he was he bit his lip to stifle a laugh.
“Nice piercing.”
Your face blazed red. Simon Riley had no business knowing that you had a barbell through the hood of your clit.
“Cute scars.”
Simon found the tips of his ears warming. You had no business knowing that he had a variety of scars on his face.
As if the spell keeping you both frozen in place broke, you snatched a towel and turned to wrap yourself in it while he turned his back so you couldn’t see his face. Both stood in the bathroom, backs to one another, there was an awkward beat of hesitation with neither of you knowing how to diffuse this situation. 
“I’ll… put him down. I’ll put him down.”
“Yes. Yeah. I’ll just… get dressed.”
“Right.”
You were both very careful to not bring it up again, even when Simon never wore the balaclava around the house after that.
6 months after the world ended
It was love in the guise of friendship. Neither of you were stupid enough to acknowledge it. 
2 hours after the fuck up of the century
“Permission to speak freely Captain.”
“Granted.”
“I fucking told ye so. Simmons has always been a shitebag, and now he’s fucked us.”
“...I won’t make you stay.”
“Aye, but we both know if I pull out of this now the world gets dirty.”
The despair settled into Price’s bones. John MacTavish should be on his way to exfil right now, but instead was on the other end of a burner phone as Price sat in the helo that wouldn’t be taking his Sergeant home as planned. 
He hated this. He hated holding little Joseph MacTavish knowing that Soap was missing it. He hated looking at you and seeing the way your eyes sometimes glazed, mind drifting to your apparently dead husband. He hated looking at Simon and seeing a man slowly falling in love and drowning in guilt about it.
But he had to get dirty to keep the world clean. 
So they changed the plan. Simmons had well and truly fucked it and now they needed to be in it for the long haul. John MacTavish would stay a dead man. Vladimir Makarov would be given no reason to suspect that his double agent was a triple agent, which meant a comms blackout until Soap was certain beyond doubt that it was time to pull the trigger. Nobody but him, Price and Laswell would ever know.
There was one thing asked of Price and he swore to it. He would do anything in his power to make sure you and Joseph were happy and looked after. He didn’t dare comment when after a moment, Soap added Simon Riley to that small list.
188 notes · View notes
pyromanicsghost · 6 months ago
Text
I genuinely don't understand why people hate the new season. Spoilers to follow.
To start, the Five and Lila subplot was shit. I won't front - it existing outside of the plot made it easy for me to just act like it didnt happen. Diego and Lila and Five deserved better and it sounds like the actors knew it. But if a bad romance subplot could ruin a whole show, I'd hate a lot more things.
I'm on the fence about Klaus's plot - felt like sidelining him and was questionable. But also a natural part of Klaus's life. Lila had her kids, Allison had Claire, Diego his family, on and on. Klaus's whole life was avoiding being sober and then a huge focus on sobriety. This is his thing. All y'all loved his drugged antics and it gets messy and sad especially when facing it post rock bottom and change.
I see a lot of Ben being unimportant complaints - Ben was always auxilary and a mcguffin there to bond or split the group - Umbrella Ben was a concept, a guilt source, Klaus's conscience, Klaus's id...never a character and dead before the show ever began. Sparrow Ben was literally never part of this family and plot about the family embracing him would have been nice, but him having his own solo quest because he is alone in this world was also fine. Jennifer was a plot device - and in a comic book show about another apocalypse thats not neccessarily a bad thing - especially with a group of dynamic characters I care about on the board.
I see a lot of complaints about the lack of fun villains. What was Sy (I know who was in him but that performance was fun)? Gene and Jean? Those are classic villains that are right up there with the Swedes and the Handler. Hazel & Cha Cha are still standouts but thats not cause these guys sucked.
I see a lot of ending complaints - going from "it was all for nothing" to "it was harmful". If it was harmful for you please be safe and that's a personal decision each time - but also that's media sometimes. It wasn't an irresponisble move like The Magicians or 13 Reasons or other things that just don't consider the audiences needs in order to gain shock value and I don't think they did anything irresponsible with it.
(I am a survivor of unalive attempts, one right after magicians so I get it. And I'm a year sober re: Klaus stuff.)
But, I loved the ending. I don't think it was all for nothing. They saved thier families! They saved everyone! The whole world! Universe! Future and past! Their moms! Hundreds of people who died in their fight to save it, on either side because without the conflict caused by them they're lives were different! I wish the Flash, or Winchesters, or anyone else who keeps ruining lives and causing death and strife sometimes on an apocalypse scale or multiverse timesplit scale had, at literally any point, said "Actually we should value this over my mom/brother/self"...like the scale was apocalyptic. That has a cost. And wow they fixed more than even I hoped. The families? Nice. Hazel and his diner wife are where I got emotional - very nice touch to show everyone.
Why isn't there a kugelblitz? Either the deletion of the timelines and that energy removed the issue Golden Compass style or its a fun comic book show with time assassins and a new element called marigold.. take your pick. It's never been that deep.
The marigolds at the end were probably not thought about as much as anyone on here has. I thought it was just a fun finale goodbye, like getting a bouqet at curtain. I liked that Ben and Lila both had one.
Genuinely confused and had to write to the void and see if I'm alone or crazy. I recommend a lot of people read and watch more media for literacy and stop hoping for plots that are fanservice as they often tank good things and fanfiction and your imagination remain goated, often better, or touch grass and realize the silly fun comic book apocalypse multiverse romp may just be a lil dumb and that's okay...if you read all that I'd love feedback 🩷
And I loved so much more than this stuff! Claire being an actualized young adult and loving her uncle and mom and being a teen? Viktor getting the validation he craved. Diego getting his skills and lust for life back. The fucking cut from baby shark to "He's dying" and so many shots/editing/music choices that highlight the dark comedy this show is.
10 notes · View notes
killed-by-choice · 1 year ago
Text
Harjit Kaur, 30 (Australia 2024)
Tumblr media
Harjit with her four-year-old and two-year-old, who she loved dearly
Harjit Kaur had so much to look forward to. Thanks to her hard work, she had just gotten a new job and she and her husband Sukhjinder Singh were about to buy a new home where they would raise their children. The future looked bright.
Harjit already had a four-year-old daughter and a two-year-old son. When she found out she was pregnant with her third child, she didn’t feel ready. Harjit underwent a “consultation” where she was told surgical abortion was “very safe” and that “she would be able to go home in a couple of hours.”
First-trimester surgical abortion is not as safe as she was led to believe. The uterus, cervix, the intestines, bladder, and nearby blood vessels are at risk of being torn. Risks include hemorrhage, infection, organ perforation, embolism and death. A few of the other women and girls killed by “safe and routine” first-trimester legal abortion include Kenniah Epps, Ruth Montero, Maria Gomez, Sandra Williams, Luz Maria Rodriguez, Elise Kalat, 17-year-old Chivon Williams, Erika Charlotte Wullschleger, Tia Archeiva Parks, 19-year-old Lisa Marie Hoefener, Pamela Colson, Maria Leho, Jennifer Hallner, Louchrisser Jackson, Regina Johnson, “Audrey Roe,” “Betty Roe,” “Dawn Roe,” “Evie Roe,” “Dorothy Roe,” “Vanessa Roe,” “Saanvi Roe,” and “Roxanne Roe.”
On January 12, 2024, Harjit went to the Hampton Park Women's Health abortion facility in Melbourne. She had told this was “safe” and a “routine procedure,” and she believed it. She was headed to the operating room at 12:57, when she messaged her husband and said she would call him after the abortion. That was the last time her family ever heard from her.
Abortionist Rudolph “Rudy” Lopes called Sukhjinder later that day to tell him what happened. Moments after the abortion was over, Harjit was being moved to another room when it was discovered that her heart had stopped. An ambulance was called and CPR administered for 45 minutes. Despite all this, Lopes described the abortion as “successful.”
Sukhjinder immediately drove to the facility, but when he arrived the staff refused to let him see Harjit. He was kept out of the ward entirely. He described the horrible day to news sources later:
“Five minutes later the doctor came to me and said, "Sorry your wife is dead".
“I was dead then. My life destroyed in a second.”
Staff finally let Sukhjinder into the room where Harjit’s body lay. “I begged her to come back for our little kids,” he said.
An investigation is now underway, with police and the coroner involved in the case.
Sukhjinder is devastated and doesn’t understand how Harjit, who was perfectly healthy, was killed by something they were repeatedly told was “safe and routine.” He struggles to comprehend what his future will look like without her and has described her needless death as unacceptable.
Harjit did not have to die. It is unacceptable that she was not warned of the potential dangers of the operation that killed her. More support should also be made available for families who are unsure if they are ready to care for a new baby. Resources to help her and Sukhjinder care for the new baby or for adoption could have helped. She and her baby should both be alive. Harjit deserved better than to be collateral damage of an industry that has already killed so many.
A GoFundMe has been set up to help the family. (Please consider donating to help them if you can.) https://www.gofundme.com/f/for-my-wifes-funeral-and-kids-support
https://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/victoria/shock-as-melbourne-motheroftwo-dies-at-hampton-park-medical-clinic/news-story/d41ffb636ea8173bc75fb741f39ed541
7 notes · View notes
Note
5 things asks - Sanctuary and Stargate
Thanks so much for the ask! ❤️
send me a tv show/book/fandom and i’ll say the top 5 things i’d change about it
Stargate (I'm going to include a follow up movie here, because I got another ask)
5. Continuum didn't exist. There was no *real* point to it. I understand tying up the Ba'al storyline, but it became all about Mitchell. I especially hated the end, where we see the guys together, but not the girls, and then the last shot was Mitchell with his grandfather (think it was his grandfather? Can't remember). No. Uh-uh. You're finishing your storyline after ten seasons and two movies, you include everyone not just goddamn Cameron Mitchell.
4. Cassie would be more prominent. She needed to be in there more. Even if it was just more liberally mentioned by the members of SG-1. They all obviously had very good bonds with her, but she disappeared from the general storyline and only Sam was shown to be all that concerned about her after Janet died. She was great (especially for the team) and she was nudged to the side.
3. Mitchell did not become leader of SG-1. Sam was done dirty with that appointment (by extension I think Amanda Tapping also was). She had been there for eight years, was Jack's second-in-command, then Mitchell just waltzed in and whined his way into command and guilted everyone to come back. All he did to 'deserve' SG-1 was crash a plane. I would have appreciated him becoming Sam's second-in-command much more and I think it would have been better friendship if she'd been teaching him rather than following.
2. Janet. Fraiser. Lived. I hated her death. It was dramatic and I can kind of see why they went there, but no!!! They did not need to! She needed to live for so many reasons. Not only was she an awesome character in her own right, Cassie was orphaned again. Janet deserved so much better and they got rid of her character for drama reasons.
1. Sam and Jack got together in canon! I know that producers and such have said that they did after Threads, but I really would have liked to see them together in the show or one of the movies. All that build up and nothing to show for it. Such a disappointment. They even cut a scene where Sam eluded to it in Atlantis. They deserved a happy ending, at least a mention of it.
Sanctuary, Other than a Fifth Season (no numbered order, because they're interchangeable)
More Sally! I love Sally and I feel she should have been in the show more, because I think it was pretty obvious she and Helen were very good friends. She's been around the Sanctuary for an undisclosed amount of time, and has been there while everyone else has, so she knows them all, probably pretty well. Plus, mer are very cool.
More family dynamic between Helen, Biggie, Henry, and Ashley. They were a family long before Will, Kate, and anyone else showed up. We didn't really see the family dynamic between the four of them. Helen and Biggie raised two children together. Henry and Ashley were obviously siblings. There needed to be more.
More flashbacks of the Five. I LOVE the Five and there's so much untapped potential with them. James died in the second episode he was in and Nigel was hardly in there at all. But they cared about and loved each other and had adventures beyond the Source blood and the Ripper. We needed to see more of all that.
Less Will being an ass. I don't hate Will, but Season 4 did such a number on his character. There was no reason for him to be such an ass in Fugue about the situation. Then The Depths made it even worse. He needed to be nicer to Helen, especially after everything she did for him. He needed to be nicer.
Ended things with Druitt differently. I felt it was a complete turnaround on him to have him want to go to the past so he could be with Helen. I mean, he probably wouldn't have wanted to be the Ripper and staying with Helen would have been a result of that. I'm all for Teslen, but they didn't need to end things with John the way they did.
Had to think hard on these, but enjoyed really picking apart my views! Thanks for asking! ❤️
14 notes · View notes
al1x00 · 5 months ago
Text
⚠️CHAP. 10 SPOILERS⚠️
THE WAY I SCREAMED WHEN I SAW THIS OMFG I'M NOT READY FOR OPIN TO END😭😭
EXCUSE ME "TW SUICIDAL THOUGHTS"?!?! WHO TF IS TRYING TO BLOW THEIR BRAINS OUT MY GOODNESS.
Love how I'm totally chill on the blood and gore part like yeah that's usual Katy™ stuff, you get used to it after reading TF🥰🥰
DAMNN HOBIE'S ON FIRE HE'S GOT NO MERCY ANYMORE. Also I love how you described the factory and the way Hick's office/balcony is placed very high up because he own the place and all that jazz because it just makes him the picture perfect image of the asshole he is LMAO
YAYY WE GOT KARL TOO THE WHOLE GANG IS HEREEE
WHOA WAIT A BAG OF TNT?? That's not gonna go well, is it..? Even if they do manage to bomb the factory, TNT is a very effective and quick explosive so if they aren't fast enough to get away someone might get hurt yknow
Hicks and his shit aim strike once again and fail😌 that man cannot land a single bullet on anyone, not even a couple of horses.
WTF HOW DID HE NOT DIE? ISTG IF HOBIE DOESN'T GET TO KILL HIM
Honestly if R was to look at Hobie and see him kill men so effortlessly while balancing only on one side of his horse they're gonna get married on the spot, like RIGHT FUCKING NOW.
Hobie lost his last whip and said "Fuck it, let's make an instrument of torture out of the new one" And I bet that shit hurt like hell.
"Everyone thinks he should be dead by now" ONE OF THE REALEST THINGS YOU WROTE YEAHH TERMINATE THAT ASSHOLE
YESS HE GOT THE DEATH HE DESERVED NO MERCY FOR HICKS
I always make sure there aren't any symbolism or anything in the paragraphs before I continue reading the chapters so I googled what do alligators symbolize and there many different versions of it. One said they symbolize inner strenght and power so I gues that could work with the power Hobie held in that moment right before he decided not to spare Hicks and let him suffer but it also says they symbolize finding solace in the present which I don't think Hicks got while he was getting eaten alive and ripped apart💀
WAIT IT'S BEEN A MONTH SINCE THE WHOLE THING HAPPENED? A WHOLE MONTH PASSED FROM THE DAY HICKS AND CROSS FOUND THEIR FARM?
OKAY WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK HAS HAPPENED. HICKS TRIED TO KILL R BY THROWING HER DOWN THE WELL? IT'S WORSE THAN ANYTHING THEY'VE DONE TO HER BEFORE WTF HE DESERVED THAT HORRIBLE DEATH.
"A graveyard full of Cross’ ancestors lies just a few ways away from the gazebo." He's gonna join them soon if he doesn't stop with that attitude🥰🥰
R thinking about Hobie everytime someone does something that he would do just hurts so much because R doesn't even know if he's alive or not at this point. She has no way of escaping or getting any source of information about him or Riri and the others and it's so fucking sad. It's hurting me so much I just need to see them happy and healthy once more😭😭
R IS BEING A GIRLBOSS I LOVE ITT
“Look at me just like how you look at him.” Okay just one more thing to add to the list of reasons of why I hate Cross so much🥰🥰 Out of all the things he's done and said this is probably one of the most disgusting EVER.
KATYY WDYM BOTH HIT THEIR TARGET?!?!?! IS R DEAD? NONONONO I CAN'T TAKE ANOTHER SAD ENDING AFTER TF THIS BETTER BE A FUCKING JOKE
DAMN R GOT SOME AIM THAT BULLET LEFT A BIG ASS HOLE THROUGHT HIS STOMACH
...Katy I swear to god if R dies I'm gonna sue you. DON'T GIVE HOBIE ANY MORE TRAUMA HE ALREADY HAS PLENTLY AND EVEN MORE TO SPARE.
“A life lived without you isn't a life well lived, remember?” Bye don't talk to me for five business days.
KATY YOU HAD ME FOR A SECOND I THOUGHT THEY BOTH DIED IN THE FIRE OH MY GOODNESS I WAS ABOUT TO THROW A FIT I WAS ALREADY SOBBING MY EYES OUT BUT THEN I WENT ON AND I WAS LIKE "WAIT A DAMN MINUTE-"
THEY GOTH DUCKIESS AND BUCKY AND CHERRY HAVE LITTLE KIDS NOW I'M SOBBING OMFG
AND COWS TOO
AND CLOVER HAS HER PUPPIES TOO OH MY GOD IT'S SO CUTEEE
God really must have favourites because how the fuck did R survive that bullet right under her ribcage? Like sure there was a possibility but holy shit R got lucky. NOT THAT I'M COMPLAINING OFC
HELLO?? BILLIE AND MONA CANON IN OPIN?? AAAA I'M LOSING MY SHIT I'M SO HAPPY THAT THEY'RE ALRIGHT AND CONTENT IN THEIR HOUSE AGAIN.
God this has been so bittersweet. Words cannot describe the utter whirlwind of emotions that I had throughtout this chapter and story overall. It has made me cry, laugh, cheer for the characters and have loads of sympathy for them, so much that sometimes I felt it to the very soul. I can safely say that this fic goes onto the podium with BDAS because the sheer amount of effort you put into this has not gone unnoticed, you've outdone yourself again like you always continue to do and I'm SO SO proud of you for writing something as beautiful as OPIN. I am not ready to say goodbye to our favourite outlaw and cowboy😭😭 (I will not say goodbye to him yet, he'll have me in a chokehold until the end of time)Honestly I could go on and yap about this for hours and hours (and I probably will because OPIN deserves it) but like- the intricacy of the storyline, the well done backstories and the way you gave each character a different moral and point of view is just 🤌* chefs kiss * YKWIM?? I will never, EVER, shut up about how R and Hobie were like complete strangers all over again when they found eachother after all those years, how they feared of the consequences of loving somebody, but in the end the only thing that mattered the most was to get back into eachother's arms and stay with the other until the end, no matter if the flames got to them or not; the fact that they were gonna die together in that fire and they were totally fine with that just because they had eachother will always cling with me. They way they both learned to love the other despite all their flaws and the how the horrible things that happened shaped them, but their love was stronger than anything else, stronger than a man and his whole bullet factory that went against two people who just truly loved eachother in the purest and most genuine way ever. They fought with claws and teeth, because they had both everything and nothing to lose, just to see the other one last time before everything caught up.
Alright I won't write more on this but I will return with another yapping session soon so expect a huge message in your inbox LMAO but thanks again for everything Katy!! LY LY LY❤️❤️❤️
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
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
Navigation
CHAPTER 10 >>>
Tumblr media
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.
Tumblr media
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 ❤️
121 notes · View notes
autolovecraft · 1 year ago
Text
Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling.
Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb.
The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he vaguely wished it would stop.
God, what a rage! Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced.
Great heavens, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you always did go too damned far!
He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus.
His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it.
To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the enlarged transom; but he could do better with four. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste.
The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it.
It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin! The tower at length finished, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste. Being without superstition, he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone.
The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch.
Birch returned over the coffins to the door. Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon.
Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. Birch returned over the coffins to the door. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course.
He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things.
He was a scoundrel, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things.
0 notes
ilguna · 2 years ago
Text
☼ her (Johanna Mason) ☼
Tumblr media
summary; ' Hi hi!! I wanna request a Johanna Mason x f!reader where the reader was also a tribute in her games from a different district who died before the finale (lots of angst lol) maybe written from present time Johanna looking back? Tysm, I love your work! ‘
warnings; swearing, murder, murder plot, death in small detail
wc; 3.8k
Johanna Mason should not have been the winner of the Seventy-First Hunger Games.
There was another girl, much kinder with soft eyes and a pretty smile. She tried to include Johanna in everything that she did, she was much more deserving of the title. The District Five girl—like everyone else—had fallen right into Johanna’s hands, believing that she really was useless. The difference between her and them, was instead of laughing and leaving her out, she went out of her way to invite Johanna to join her.
Johanna can’t pretend that she was friends with her from the beginning. They came from two different districts, neither of them important enough to pose a threat. She was more focused on the dangerous tributes, One, Two and Four. She had to know the careers, what game they were going to play so that Johanna could play the opposite.
It wasn’t until Johanna watched the recap again, did she begin to take the other tributes into consideration. She didn’t have to know their names, or what they were wearing, only their reactions to being reaped for that year’s Hunger Games. Well, fortunately for that Five girl, she was the first to be called after District Four, when Johanna was still halfway interested in her competition.
(Y/n), that’s all that stuck with Johanna. Not the last name, because that would never be useful. She lifted her head from the crowd, eyes finding the stage, before moving into the aisle without a fight. She’d been the first tribute that hadn’t made a scene about being reaped. Johanna could tell that she wasn’t from anywhere important, what she was wearing wasn’t expensive. It was the attitude that stood out to her, the way she smiled.
The other tributes behind her weren’t as amazing, none of them posed a threat, much less the tributes from Eleven and Twelve, who might have well been still sucking on pacifiers. Johanna would fit right in with the outcasts, the babies that’d been reaped. She had this plan since she turned twelve.
If Johanna were to ever be reaped, she would want to be underestimated. All the tributes before her had a big name, an ego, showing their cards to prove they were the best. What happens when you aren’t? She’d never seen a hidden tribute come out on top like that, none of them could ever make it. She could.
She was never after the name, only the win. She wanted to make it home, just like everyone else. It wasn’t her fault that she came up with the brilliant idea early on. She cried on stage when she was reaped, her eyes were puffy and red. Her tribute partner took the news way better than she did, obviously. He wasn’t full of tears, it was mostly shock.
In the Capitol, she kept playing up the act, crying during her remake. Enough to the point where her prep team ordered her to stop, where she played it up more to make them feel bad. They also fell into the trap, it was too easy to do. The stylist dressed her as a tree, as he’d done for three decades without being replaced. It’s like the stylists that dress the One and Two tributes the same every year too.
Johanna remembers walking out of the building, out onto the open floor, where the chariots and other tributes were waiting for the show to start to get it over with. The careers were dressed in their usual attire, other districts were just as unlucky as Johanna when it came to repeated outfits. 
Except, the Five stylists had come up with something different that year. Instead of messing around with lightbulbs and glitter, they’d switched to another source of power, fire. It wasn’t like they’d done with Katniss, lighting her on fire and leaving her to burn on the chariot. There was nothing of the sort, it was all said in the outfit.
(Y/n) was dressed like a candle, the entire dress lopsided, heavier on one side than the other. It was long, for the most part. On the left, the fabric was longer on the sleeves, the dress pooled on the ground, like melted candle wax collecting at the base. On the right, the dress was off the shoulder, cutting low on her breast. That side of the dress was cut off at the middle of her thigh, because sometimes candle’s don’t melt evenly.
For the first time in years, District Five had the spotlight during the Tribute Parade. Johanna’s not sure why, the dress wasn’t anything to gawk at. The jewelry didn’t convey it properly, and she quite literally had a headband with a black stick on the top of her head to symbolize the wick. It’s not like it mattered in the end, anyway. The craze was short-lived. 
It wasn’t until the training started, did Johanna really get the taste of her. From the moment they were released by the Head Trainer, (Y/n) stuck next to Johanna like glue, but unlike glue, the girl was unshakable. It was irritating, to some extent. Johanna went from being subtle about wanting to be alone, trying to use her crying act to get her away, only it brought her in more. 
So, she asked (Y/n) to leave. 
It didn’t work, which meant that Johanna was going to have a shadow following her for the rest of the time they were inside of the Capitol. The weird girl from Five, who’d smiled during the reaping and managed to catch some eyes during the Tribute Parade, was now Johanna’s friend.
Johanna wasn’t completely rude about the situation, it was her own fault that her act was working so well. And over the three training days, she learned to appreciate (Y/n), because she was giving Johanna cover. The sympathy and the teaching was proving to the other tributes that she wasn’t a threat, and to continue to overlook her.
The issue is, that over the period of three days, Johanna was talking to her, hearing about where she came from, why she was there, who she was. The answer to those should be obvious, but they’re not. (Y/n) wasn’t just a girl from District Five, she was an early worker that came from the dam, with too many siblings to feed. That’s why her name was drawn from the bowl, because she kept putting her name in for Tessera.
She was there because of herself, and she was grateful she was drawn because she’d never have the courage to volunteer. She was seventeen, the same age as Johanna. In one more year, she wouldn’t have to worry about going inside of the arena, ever again, but that would also take away the ability to win. To have a steady amount of money coming from the government each month. It would feed her siblings better than she ever could.
In a way, (Y/n) was crazy for thinking like that, yet it didn’t push Johanna away from her. It drew her closer, because if she was so desperate to win to feed her family, then why was she making friends with people who showed no threat of winning? Because Johanna wasn’t the only person that she went around talking to, there were others. The only reason why she didn’t stick with them is because they told her to leave.
Besides, if (Y/n) thought she was doing people favors by trying to recruit them, she was actually damning them. She didn’t know much, that was clear from the beginning. The only things she really managed to succeed at were the basics. She could start a fire, she knew how to clean a wound and stitch it if it were necessary, she was able to hold a weapon without going down with it. She was ordinary.
So was the score she earned from the training, a six. Halfway on the scale, nothing sponsors could work with. The Gamemakers thought she wasn’t special, why should the people spending the money think otherwise? The only outstanding part of her so far was the outfit during the Tribute Parade, an idea that wasn’t hers. She just wore it.
Johanna wouldn’t see her for the next day and a half, something that she’d been looking forward to since the first day of training. Only, when the day came around, the silence was filled the way she wanted it to be. With (Y/n) she can direct the conversation so that she enjoys it too. Johanna spent hours on end between her stupid Capitol escort and mentors that couldn’t give a shit about what she does during the interviews.
When that night did finally come, (Y/n) found Johanna as soon as she walked into the hallway. For the first time since she came into the Capitol, (Y/n) was serious, approaching Johanna. Johanna couldn’t have guessed what was going to come next, the deadpan expression, asking if she would join her in an alliance.
Johanna told her no. It wasn’t because she didn’t want an alliance, because she knew how much smoother it would go in the arena if she had someone to watch her back. It was because she knew that (Y/n) could find a better partner inside. Johanna had scored a three, the lowest a Seven tribute had gotten in years. If (Y/n) had even the slightest chance at getting people to sponsor her, it would be wiped out by Johanna’s presence alone.
That wasn’t the only reason, though. The more Johanna talked to her, and began liking her, the harder it would be to kill her later on. Johanna came in with a game plan, one that couldn’t be screwed up by being soft around another tribute. It’s simple: she plays the damsel card, and then she viciously murders. There was no middle part where she formed her own group. It was straightforward to avoid the whole conflicted-murder part.
Well, (Y/n) took it better than Johanna thought she would. For a second, it looked like she was going to argue, explain why they would be better together. And then she nodded, wished Johanna good luck, and then left to get back to her place in line. It was disappointing, not hearing her beg Johanna to stay. 
On stage, (Y/n) had the brightest smile, nodding at Caesar, easily conversing with him. She talked about her family, what she’ll do when she wins. She showed off the dress she was wearing, which was navy blue in color and puffy. She twirled for the audience, and then curtsied at the end of her interview, thanking them for her time. 
Johanna, on the other hand, couldn’t have put on a better act. She was shy, and on the brink of tears the entire time. It was painful for Caesar, she got gratification from watching him squirm to keep the conversation going. What do you say to someone so fragile without triggering the tears? Johanna maybe said ten words total in the three minutes she was given. Caesar resorted to yes or no questions.
Then the arena came around, the cornucopia was in the middle of a forest. They were surrounded by tall pine trees, needles and cones scattered across the ground. It was dark, the sun could hardly get through their strong branches. For once, there was a landscape aimed for the Seven tributes, maybe it was to taunt the mentors, because their tributes were so weak.
It didn’t matter to Johanna, she could hardly hold back the smile. It took all the power inside of her not to run to the cornucopia like she wanted to. She could see the axes outside, on display to her and her tribute partner. Instead, she ran away, like she was destined to, far into the trees to hide.
She was by herself, still playing up the act, because the only audience that was left at that moment were the people in the Capitol. She couldn’t have the mentors quietly telling their tributes to keep an eye on her, to hunt her down. She’d let the tributes figure that out on their own, let them come to her.
The first day, eight tributes died, one of them being a career, leaving five left over. She camped out near a large clearing of only grass, not a single flower in sight. On the second day, two of them were gone, presumably by the career pack, searching for victims. The next five days would be quiet, not a single tribute.
Johanna was found out in the clearing by the five careers. And thinking she would be an easy victim, they chased her for hours through the trees, where she drove them in circles and deeper so that it would be harder for them to navigate their way back to the cornucopia. If she couldn’t have it, then no one could, especially them. It just meant that she had to be careful when moving.
Unfortunately for her, she wasn’t completely unscathed. The girl from Four was smart, she managed to get Johanna across the cheek and good gash into her upper arm. The wound on her face had stopped bleeding after a few hours, but the one on her arm was a whole new story. It was too deep, the only thing that could heal it was the Capitol, or anything from the cornucopia, now out of the question because even she couldn’t find it at that point.
It only took one day before another tribute ran across Johanna, this time at night. She’d lit a fire because it was getting cold, adn with the density of the woods, she believed that she’d be safe. The careers were supposed to be miles away, the branches would cover the smoke. If they did find her, she’d outrun them again.
It wasn’t a career that found her, it was (Y/n).
She had a forest green backpack, with an ax strapped to the side of it. Her hair was messy, like she kept moving it out of her face without running her fingers through it entirely to smooth it out. In one of her hands was a knife, clean but prepared to use it if she needed to.
The moment she saw Johanna, she lowered the weapon and smiled, “Johanna.” She breathed.
The reason why Johanna hadn’t bled to death, or caught some nasty infection that would’ve taken off her arm, is because of (Y/n). Disregarding the fact that they were now inside of the arena, and it would be fair game to murder her. They weren’t friends, Johanna thought she’d established that at the interviews by saying no to her offer. Still, here she was, cleaning the wound in her arm, stitching it, and bandaging it.
She took the ax from her backpack and handed it to Johanna as a peace offering, saying that she needed a weapon too. It was a risky gesture, just handing the ax over without her own knife out. Still, Johanna played up the fact that she really couldn’t hold it, and insisted that (Y/n) kept it for safety. She shrugged.
Once again, she offered the alliance, this time Johanna said yes.
That same night, the careers saw the light from the fire, and managed to come close enough to the point where running wouldn’t have saved either of them. They’d already killed two people earlier that day, bringing the count down to ten tributes left in the arena, Johanna couldn’t possibly have known that they would go for more. However, she should’ve known better.
(Y/n) couldn’t fight, she could hold a sword in her hand, but she didn’t have a sword, she had a knife. It was Johanna, who could actually wield the ax and take down tributes. She only had a second to decide, either give up her act and save (Y/n), or throw her to the wolves and run.
The other option didn’t even exist to her.
The ax came off the backpack, Johanna getting to her feet, holding it in her hand. She remembers (Y/n) calling her name, telling her to back off, because she’d get herself killed. The careers sneered, she can still see that stupid expression. Right before she swung the ax into the boy’s head. Effectively wiping the look off their faces, and forcing them to take a reality check.
Johanna only killed one more, even though she was going to take down the whole pack if she could. They all left, scattering in the trees, leaving the two of them with the bodies. It was an unfair fight, Johanna was fairly surprised that they didn’t take the risk, gang up on Johanna and then take down (Y/n).
That’s what Johanna would’ve done.
To say that her ally was speechless would be an understatement. Johanna had barely moved to look at her friend, and (Y/n) had jerked away, eyes locked with hers. It was more than just shock, there was fear there too. Johanna’s plan had worked, she cried her way into the arena, and she had no right to feel her heart drop to her stomach when the only tribute she’d made as a friend, had wanted nothing to do with her.
“I won’t hurt you.” Johanna told her, dropping the ax. She didn’t want to drive (Y/n) away, that was the last thing she wanted now. She risked everything to save her, why would she ruin that now? “I promise you’re not a target, you never were. I did it because of the careers.”
“What does a promise mean here?” She’d asked, “How do I know?”
“I would’ve killed you the moment you handed me the ax, wouldn’t I?” Johanna shot back, defensive, “Go, if you want.”
(Y/n) held her ground, obviously trembling, eyebrows drawn together as she examined Johanna, if she was telling the truth. She must’ve come out with an answer she liked, because she loosened, let out a breath, and shook her head, “You have another cut, come here so I can heal you.”
The two of them got closer, mostly because they were around each other constantly, sharing their knowledge. What (Y/n) picked up in the Training Center had come in handy, even if it wasn’t a lot. One of those skills turned out to be important, what she’d been using to find Johanna.
She knew how to track.
It only took a day before she found a path, it didn’t belong to the careers, but it did bring them to a smaller alliance, between the remaining Ten and Six tributes. There, Johanna killed them both, bringing the number of tributes from eight to six. The remaining tributes were the three careers, her and (Y/n), and a lone tribute.
Finding the other tributes were harder, another three days passed before (Y/n) thought she found the careers. It had multiple footprints, which could only belong to one group, and it wasn’t theirs. Because the number would be uneven, (Y/n) wanted to come with, help Johanna take down the three careers because that wasn’t going to be an easy feat.
Johanna told her to keep put. She didn’t need someone following her around, having another body to protect would make it hard to focus. So, she stuck her inside of a hollow tree, and went off to kill the careers alone.
That’s what she thought, anyway. Johanna got all the way to the camp, finding only two of them, and it didn’t tick her off in any way, even though it should’ve. Three careers left, and she could only see two of them? The third’s got to be lurking somewhere nearby, right? That’s what makes sense. Johanna overlooked that fact, and it costed a life that she cared about. 
She’d killed one career, moving onto the second, when there was a scream behind her. She didn’t turn right away, not until the job in front of her was done. When she did see the scene going on, it was too late. 
(Y/n) had wrapped her body around the boy that was creeping up to Johanna, bringing them both to the ground in a struggle. It wasn’t, though. It was easy for the boy to stab her, because he pinned her wrist to the ground and stabbed her over and over, draining every remaining minute of her life with each puncture.
Johanna killed him too, and barely had enough time to cradle her friend’s dying body.
She can still feel (Y/n)’s hand touching her cheek, fingers lazily wiping away one of Johanna’s tears. The pretty smile returned to her face, this time her teeth stained red with the blood she was resisting to cough up in Johanna’s face. The words were quiet, it took all the effort in her body to say.
“You’re going to win.”
(Y/n) died less than a minute later, eyes as lifeless as her body. Johanna could hardly muster the strength to close her eyelids before leaving the career camp, hoping that the trees would catch fire and leave a burning path behind her. She didn’t realize the impression that (Y/n) had left on her.
Johanna killed the last tribute without a problem, being crowned the victor. It didn’t feel right, though, as if there was a spot next to her that was empty, that should’ve been full. She knew what the problem was, who was missing. It was the girl that had succeeded in burrowing her way into Johanna’s heart and calling it home.
There are times where Johanna closes her eyes and wishes that she could have just one more conversation with her. To hear what she’d have to say about everything now. This is what she would’ve wanted, peace for the districts for once. Here, everyone’s fed and never hungry.
Johanna wishes she were alive. 
(Y/n) would be better at this whole rebel thing than Johanna is. She’d know what to say, she’d give everything she could to help the people around her. Johanna doesn’t even know why she’s here anymore, being asked to go out there for Katniss. (Y/n) would be a perfect fit for Johanna’s role.
Johanna misses her like she misses her family. She’d give anything to hear her laugh one more time, the endless advice as if Johanna was completely clueless. The teamwork, the smiles. Johanna shouldn’t be here today, it should be her.
It’s not fair that the good ones get taken first.
(Y/n) (L/n) should have been the winner of the Seventy-First Hunger Games.
144 notes · View notes
karalora · 4 years ago
Text
On Disney's Live-Action Remakes
A thought occurs to me, as I read all the emphatically well-deserved snark aimed at the Cruella movie, especially the aspects that make little sense in connection with the original animated film…what Disney is counting on, when they release these live-action remakes and perspective flips, is that the majority of the audience hasn’t watched the original any time recently. That we have fond memories of watching as kids and instantly recognize the characters, but aren’t actually what you’d call familiar with that source material. In fact, they are relying on us being more familiar with the pop-cultural osmosis version of these movies and characters—with the discourse—than the actual portrayals.
Why make an origin movie about Cruella DeVil? Why, because she is the MOST EVIL of all the Disney Villains—she wants to kill puppies!—and wouldn’t it be just fascinating to discover how she got that way? Never mind that anyone who actually watches Disney movies and thinks about it for more than five seconds will realize that most of the Villains want to kill people at one point or another, and that any decent system of morality rates killing people as worse than killing puppies (at least if, like Cruella, you don’t know the puppies are sapient beings)…puppy-killing is memetically The Worst Thing, so Cruella’s backstory is deemed The Most Intriguing.
How about Maleficent? Well, people have seen a lot of well-meaning but superficial discussions about the Disney Princess brand and sexism much more recently than they have watched Sleeping Beauty, so what they remember is “the Princess sleeps through her own movie” and therefore it is Unfeminist and Bad. Therefore, they are primed to accept that turning the story on its head to be about the wicked fairy, who is an empowered woman, AND making it a rape-revenge story on top of that (awareness!), is More Feminist and also The Truth All Along.
Never mind that Sleeping Beauty, on its own, is a perfectly serviceable feminist movie, because the major movers and shakers of the story on both sides are all powerful women (and indeed, Maleficent can’t reckon entirely without the Good Fairies…so it makes them cowardly buffoons, diminishing three women in order to elevate one. Much empowered. So feminism. Wow).
Or take Beauty and the Beast. Now, that is one that adults actually watch frequently enough, so they couldn’t get too screwy with the plot and characterization, but boy oh boy did the internet discourse rear its head. You know how people are always noticing that Disney Princesses never have moms? Well, we’re gonna explain what happened to Belle’s mom! (She died. Of a disease. This of course changes our understanding of Belle on a fundamental level oh wait no it changes literally nothing) You know how modern people living in individualistic democracies criticize the Enchantress for punishing the Prince’s servants for his jackassery? We’re gonna explain that too! (See, it was sort of their fault he turned out so rotten, because they didn’t raise him better, which is definitely something the hired help in a monarchy has any control over). And on and on it goes, laser-focused on addressing what people think they know about the movie rather than being any sort of meaningful examination of its themes a generation later.
Hell, this mentality is even seeping into the animated features now. People are wondering where Elsa’s powers came from? Fine, make a sequel that explains it. Any sensible and confident creator would be able to say “It’s not important why she has powers. That’s not what the story is about. You don’t need to know where her powers came from anywhere than you need to know where Peter Pan’s powers came from.” (Except that apparently people have been asking where Peter Pan’s powers came from, because there’s an entire cottage industry dedicated to writing Peter’s origin story.)
I’m starting to drift, so I’ll wrap this up. Not only is Disney buying up every media empire under the sun to mine for new material since they can’t be bothered to make up their own anymore, they’re doing the same thing to their own back-catalogue. But that only works if the audience doesn’t have any more respect for the back-catalogue than the company does. So do yourself a favor, you with the Disney+ account that you only use to watch the new stuff as it comes out: Go back and watch the classics. When you hear that Disney is gearing up for another live-action remake of a decades-old animated feature, watch the animated one. Take it as it is, on its own terms, instead of looking for stuff that Cracked.com would have a field day with.
Disney can’t skin the puppies if people are still petting them. Go pet those puppies, and you’ll know to say no to the fur coat.
577 notes · View notes
vivid4am · 4 years ago
Text
Life Goes On (Chapter 1)
Tumblr media
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Summary: Bucky meets his neighbor who keeps playing the same song on repeat. 
Takes place before TFATWS
Warnings: Cursing, suicidal ideation(?), hella Beatles references
A/N: This is my first fanfic in like a long time, so sorry if my writing skills are a little week.
Whoever Bucky’s neighbor was, he loathed them. 
Life really hasn’t been kind to him lately. After being under control by HYDRA for so many years, breaking out and finding his best friend only to be turned into dust and coming back five years later with his then best friend abandoning him to go back in time to be with the love of his life. Yeah, not a good hand was dealt to him. 
The only good thing was being pardoned by the United States government and not being sent to jail for the rest of his goddamn miserable life. 
So here he was, sitting on his living room floor, staring at his T.V. and listening to that godforsaken song his neighbor was playing on repeat. 
Ob-la-di, ob-la-da
Life goes on, bra
La-la, how the life goes on
It was taunting almost. After all the shit Bucky’s went through, he wished his life didn’t go on. Wished he could be like Steve, go back in time and find someone who he could live the rest of his life with. Wished that the United States government did lock him up. Wished that they executed him. 
Ob-la-di, ob-la-da
Life goes on, bra
La-la, how the life goes on
Maybe he can complain to Dr. Raynor about this tomorrow. Tell her that the song almost makes him feel murderous again. Maybe she’ll report him and they will finally lock him up. It’s what he deserves anyway, after all the heinous crimes he’s committed. Bucky laid his head back against the wall and sighed. He then stopped and listened.
Solace and silence. The song was finally over. A smile stretched across Bucky’s unshaven face and he choked out a laugh. It didn’t last long though.
That stupid bass line along with that stupid piano started to fill his ears again.
“Are you kidding me?” Bucky said to himself. He knocked on the wall, trying to grab his neighbor’s attention to stop playing that stupid fucking song. 
The song suddenly stopped and a voice came through the wall. 
“Sorry, didn’t realize you weren’t a Beatles fan.” The voice said. 
Bucky didn’t give himself time to think, he just spoke. “I have no fucking clue who they are.” He replied. 
Bucky didn’t get a response. Silence filled his Brooklyn apartment. Then came a knock on his door. Bucky scrunched his face up. Who the hell would come visit him at this time at night? Mr. Nakajima? He pulled the blankets off his legs and stood up, his dog tags hanging off his neck. He peeked through the peephole and saw a girl standing in the hall with a white t-shirt, Cookie Monster pajama pants and her arms crossed over her chest. He sighed and opened the door. 
“Can I-”
“How do you not know who the fucking Beatles are?”
“Excuse me?” Well, maybe it’s because I’m a hundred and some year old man and have never been aware of my surroundings in the 60s before.
“The Beatles! Y’know, John, Paul, George, and Ringo? Abbey Road? Hey Jude? Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club? Here Comes The Sun? The fucking Beatles?” 
Bucky was shocked to be frank. Why was this girl screaming at him about The Beatles? He knew he should’ve listened to what Steve put down in that journal, dammit. 
All he could do was shake his head. “Sorry, no.”
“What were you, born yesterday?” The attitude on this girl was thick. She intimidated him almost, staring into his stone cold blue eyes. 
“No.” Yes.
“Don’t tell me you listen to that shitty Soundcloud rapper bullshit either.” The girl mumbled, pushing her way into Bucky’s apartment. Buck couldn’t help but panic. What if she saw his arm? What would he say to her? Then again, he didn’t really owe her any answers, she was the one who just waltzed into his apartment. 
Luckily Bucky had a grey sweatshirt laying on his kitchen counter. He pulled it over his head and stuffed his hands into his pockets. The girl stopped in front of his living room. “Nice pad you got here.” She said, admiring his single cushioned arm chair, TV stand and makeshift floor bed. 
“Uh- new furniture coming in, my old stuff fell apart.” He lied, looking down feeling almost embarrassed. “Eh, it’s okay. You’re better than the last tenets that were here.” She said, searching around his apartment. 
“I’m sorry, but- what are you looking for? Matter of fact, why are you in here?” He asked, following her around. Hopefully she didn’t find his knife stash. He wasn’t supposed to have any weapons, but he needed something in case someone tried to break in. He still gets paranoid sometimes. 
“Looking for the source in your shitty taste in music.” The girl deadpanned. 
“I-uh, I don’t listen to music.” 
The girl skidded to a halt. She turned around, shock riddled on her face. “Really? I mean, with that haircut and dog tags, you strike me as a guy who listens to Led Zeppelin religiously.” She then put her hand up. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who Led Zeppelin are either.” 
Bucky grimaced at the girl and she sighed. 
“Tomorrow,” She started, “meet me next door at 8, I get off work at 7:30.” She said before walking towards the door. Bucky gave her a confused look. “For what?” He asked, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. The girl gave him a cheeky smile. “So I can show you music.” She replied, opening the door.
“I’m Y/N, by the way.” She said before she shut the door. 
“Bucky.” He whispered, but she was already gone.
| Next Part
499 notes · View notes
crypty · 2 years ago
Text
Oh brother, my brother
Oh, brother of mine
Captain Rex had a great many regrets. Often times he had to simply keep his head held high and face his mistakes bravely. Often they resulted in good men’s, his men’s, deaths. Somehow Rex hasn’t yet fallen victim to their fates. That, however, might change today. 
It's been a long, long time
His armor was different. Rex remembered scuffed armor, hough always clean. It had wear but the owner clearly cared about appearances. Rex would expect nothing less from his ori’vod. Rex remembered sunburst armor, proud and bold and orange. Cody was always a proud man. 
Since I've seen my face in your eyes
Cody’s plastiod armor shone. No paint, no scratches, no show of battle. Rex saw his face reflected in the armor. The face his brother shared, all his brothers shared. Rex hasn’t seen Cody’s face in years. He missed his brother. 
Oh brother, I've returned
Rex regretted leaving Cody behind. He regretted not listening to Fives. He wished he could rewind and fix it all. He wished he could save his brother from the chips. He wished his brother wasn’t ordered to shoot his general down. He wished it could be better. Cody deserved better, they both did. 
To my burn scars of birth
Cody’s hand rested on his gun. Rex was talented but Cody was a Marshall Commander. Cody was the best of the best. He would be vital for the Resistance. Rex just wanted his brother. He wanted to save as many as he could. 
Charcoal and iron brought me back
Perhaps it was the ‘Will of the Force’. More likely it was the fact that Rex was created to be a soldier. He held a blaster almost as soon as he could speak and he knew more about battle strategies than civilian life. He supposed that fate brought him to his brother. Two sides of the same coin. 
And I left you alone in a house, not a home
He regretted leaving Cody behind. He left his brother without his general or his identity. In a way, without their brothers as well. Where did they go, when they were decommissioned? How many did Cody himself have to execute? How did Cody manage to not eat his blaster? 
And I watched the burning grow as my hair filled with grey
Rex got older, when did that happen? Of course, there was the accelerated aging but damn. When did they get so old? Neither were expected to live this long. Thirty was the prime of a natborn’s life but here they were, old men. 
From the ashes that fell
So many brothers died. Rex wondered if he could even save Cody. He wondered if either of them were worth saving to others. Perhaps, as Cody looked at him with hatred in his eyes, he was the only one who truly saw Rex. Rex wondered, as he looked at his brother with love, if it was better during the war. 
The mountains I knew so well
Rex knew how to fight. Muscle memory. He tackled his brother and ducked out of the way as a red blaster bolt flew at his head. The deadly accuracy his brothers were known for. They fought and wrestled like animals. Rex remembered, when hey were cadets, how they would spar. Better times. 
Burned with hellfire in the blue light of midnight
The blaster went sprawling and Rex wrapped his arms around his struggling brother. Eventually, he relaxed. He wriggled a bit. Pain bloomed in Rex’s chest. Cody slumped over, dead. His spare handgun fell to the floor and matching wounds burned in their skin. 
Brother, I watched the sky burn
Rex saw the end of an era. The end of generations of Jedi. He was made to die for them. His brothers marched on children and slaughtered them. He held Cody tightly. He couldn’t save him but this was a better life. Perhaps, when they marched on, their brothers and generals would allow them to join their ranks. 
And all I learned was smoke fills the lungs like a disease
~~~
based on “Brother” by Madds Buckley
Masterlist
https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/thelullabyer12/686907751015809024?source=share
16 notes · View notes
ruby-whistler · 3 years ago
Text
The Prison Arc - a Complete Recap
[ /dsmp /rp - All of the people mentioned in this post are the characters, not the content creators behind them. TWs for mentions of fictional murder, abuse, torture, self-harm, and other canon-typical themes. ]
Watch the cut-down version of this recap here! The video doesn’t have all the details, but is well-edited and easier to watch.
Starting where we left off, after the Disc War finale, Dream reveals the last trick up his sleeve, the revival book. Seeing him as an active danger to the server, the people need a way to get rid of him in order to keep themselves and each other safe, but instead of killing him, they store him away for later use, also making the prison a Vault in a literal sense.
This is where the story of the prison seemingly begins, but - let’s rewind for a moment, because any and all information here is vital. What do we know about the prison? It was commissioned for 64 diamond blocks by Dream to be built by Awesamdude a day after Tommy was exiled. The prison was supposed to be inescapable, and hold a highly capable individual, yet allow visitors.
Getting back to the lore, a day after Dream arrives in the prison, Tommy goes to visit him. During this visit, Dream states that there is nothing to do in the cell besides watching the clock on the wall, and that he is planning on writing something in the books that were given to him. Tommy shows him how to spin the clock really fast, which Dream calls a new game. He says that he is doing well so far, that he gets fed raw potatoes and can write or “swim”. He goes on to jump into the lava that blocks off his cell, killing himself. Tommy teases him, Dream asking him to visit more as he is alone in the cell with no real interaction. He then argues that if he stays for a long while and gets better, he can be freed, however Tommy doesn’t agree. Dream then apologizes, presumably to convince Tommy he can be let go, and talks about feeling bad about things he lost during the Finale. Tommy gives him five books to write, saying it’s so that he can forgive him. After this exchange, Tommy asks who Dream misses the most, and Dream yells for Sam to make him leave.
Around this time, as he reveals later, Dream starts telling Sam about what he did to Tommy in exile, which leads to the Warden becoming increasingly fearful and especially hateful towards the prisoner.
Nine days later, BadBoyHalo decides to pay Dream a visit as well. Dream is slow to respond at first, commenting that BBH is the first visitor in a while. He says he’s doing good, and spins the clock, because apparently he burnt some of his books, and doesn’t write much anymore. Bad tries to be optimistic about his conditions, and Dream agrees in a very… unconvincing, tone of voice. (29:40 - 29:49)
He says that he gets potatoes, but they’re raw, so they’re not good food. Apparently, Sam has told him he couldn’t have any visitors for a few days, because he would try to get out. He concurs to Bad that he did bad things that got him locked up, and asks how Sapnap and George are doing - noting that they haven’t visited him yet. Bad tells him that Tommy has started a hotel, and about the Egg. Dream seems lethargic and preoccupied the entire time, spinning his clock - he says he’s named it, but doesn’t want to elaborate further. He gives Bad a note that says “thank you for visiting me badboyhalo!” and explains that his sentence is forever, which is later also confirmed by Sam, and goes on to talk more about the clock and how he “likes it halfway” it’s because c!Ranboo metaphorically is the clock-
He once again reiterates that there is not a lot for him to do, and that nearly no one has visited him. He reveals to BadBoyHalo that he sometimes does a “prank” where he’ll burn his clock, so that Sam has to come to replace it and he can see and say hi to him. After being asked whether or not he gets in trouble for it, he replies that Sam will sometimes deprive him of food as punishment, essentially starving him for his attempts at interaction, though Dream diminishes it and laughs about Sam reprimanding him. The Warden is planning to make an automated food dispenser so as to not have to come into the cell himself, which means even less interaction in essence. Despite all of this, he says that Sam is “treating him amazing” and that he’s happy. During the visit, he sniffles and coughs as he talks, voice low and void of energy.
BadBoyHalo wants to become a prison guard so that he can make the cell look nicer, perhaps giving Dream a potted plant and flower or two, as well as promising he’ll talk to George and Sapnap who Dream says he wants to visit him the most. He encourages him to look forward to better things, think positively, and - (42:03 - 42:20) As BBH freaks out, he explains that hurting himself this way is how he keeps himself entertained, setting himself on fire again. He says he wants to summon Bad into the cell by breaking a block when he becomes a guard, but goes back on this as it would potentially make Sam mad. Bad promises to visit with his friends, and leaves the cell.
He tells Sam that he needs to replace the clock, who refuses to, seeming frustrated with Dream’s antics. Bad tries to convince him to give it back, Sam saying it doesn’t matter whether Dream has it or not, although it’s basically one of Dream’s only sources of entertainment, and Bad tells him to give him one more clock as a compromise. Sam asks whether he… said anything, suspiciously enough? And Bad says they only talked a bit and that he jumped in the lava. Sam confirms he does that a lot and he thinks it’s for attention.
BadBoyHalo feels conflicted, to say the very least. (53:34-54:02 54:16-54:33 56:34-56:53 1:02:24-1:03:05)
That very same day, Ranboo has a strange hallucination-like nightmare about visiting Dream. However when he tries to visit again, Sam tells him that he visited not too long after Dream was first locked up, also bringing a memory book with him. Later, during the prison podcast with Techno, Dream himself mentions Ranboo and says that he “used to visit a lot” before stopping completely - this lines up with what Ranboo does afterwards, having Sam promise to never let him in again.
On February 7th, Dream dies in lava repeatedly on someone’s stream. This happens a couple of times throughout people’s time on the server, and seems to line up with Sam’s claim that he swims in lava pretty often.
Twenty-one days into Dream’s stay in the cell, Sapnap finally decides to visit. Dream stands mostly still and silent, holding the clock in his hand, and explains through books that he’s not talking because he’s on strike. He places the clock and spins it - Sam seems to have renamed it to “DO NOT BURN”. He tells Sapnap that he took too long, who responds that it took him a while because he felt hurt, but also says that Dream can talk to him if he wants to. Dream’s cell has had some of the obsidian changed out for crying obsidian as a security measure - Dream could’ve, and tried to, light a nether portal in the cell to escape. Sapnap tells him he needs to stay in the prison, because that is where he deserves to be - Dream burns his clock in response, insisting that he will get better and get out eventually. Sapnap threatens to kill him if he does - Dream simply tells him to deliver a message to Ranboo because he stopped visiting, a smiley face, which seems to trigger his enderwalk when received, and promises to stop throwing his clock away in return. Sapnap says he’ll visit more, and that he’ll tell George to visit him as well.
The next visit is nine days later, and is an attempt at getting closure. Tommy notes there’s a little hole on the prison roof when he goes to check up on it beforehand. (1:39-1:44). When Sam asks, Tommy says he thinks Dream is deserving of being locked up, but he highlights he doesn’t think he deserves death. He implies he could or might deserve torture though. (12:13-12:16). He says he’ll only ever visit Dream if he needs anyone revived from now on, calling it the only reason Dream’s still alive. Upon entering the cell, he notices some of the obsidian is now crying obsidian.
The first thing Dream tells Tommy is that he lost his clock since the last time he visited him. Tommy seems nervous, stumbling over his words. Dream eagerly tells Tommy he’s glad he came to visit him, that it’s been a while, and that he wishes he would visit him more. He says he likes having people visit him, that he likes just talking to them (23:46-23:49).
Tommy tells Dream this is his last visit. Dream argues that forever is a long time, asking why it is the last time. Tommy tells him he’s the pinnacle of villainy and that he wants to move on. He says he’s been suffering from success while Dream wasn’t there. Dream replies that he has been too, except without the success part, just suffering - Tommy says he had it coming. Dream nonchalantly replies with “yeah”. He goes on to say that maybe one day he could leave, saying he’s already been changing since he came. They talk about the crying obsidian, Tommy comparing the situation to exile, which devolves into an argument. He finds out that Dream burnt the books he was supposed to write, and that BadBoyHalo visited at some point. Dream asks him to visit again, but Tommy refuses, saying he’s terrible. Dream says that everyone thinks they’re in the right, and that he did bad things for good reasons (31:51-32:13) - Tommy refuses to listen to said reasons, listing Dream’s crimes again, and says he refuses to stress himself out by going to visit Dream any longer. Dream says he’s trying to change, promising to be better if he comes back, and Tommy says goodbye.
In that moment, explosions are heard going off in the distance. The two talk about it for a moment, before Tommy starts yelling for Sam. His name disappears and the Warden doesn’t answer as more TNT goes off, Tommy freaking out and Dream seeming to find it interesting.
Tommy starts begging Dream for a way out, and Dream tells him calmly that Sam is dealing with the security issue. Tommy doesn’t get it, so Dream explains that it means he could be stuck in there for a little bit, maybe even days. Tommy is getting desperate, Dream tells him he knows he signed a book, because he’s the one who wrote it, that said that if there’s a security issue, he can be in there for up to a week.
Tommy rambles about all the things he has to do that week and calls out for Phil. Dream suggests they break out together, but Tommy refuses this offer.
Dream gives Tommy some potatoes, who hits him and yells at him to explain, to which Dream yells back he has no idea what is going on as he’s locked in a room.
Tommy accuses Dream that he’s lying, saying it’s too perfectly timed to be a coincidence, calling him the monster of the server, saying he hasn’t changed, and Dream trying to convince him he did or he’s trying to. The two argue, Dream bringing up exile in the process, until Dream suggests to just deal with each other’s presence, not hit each other, and explains he’s happy to finally have company, Tommy panicking and saying he wants to hurt Dream. He takes the “thank you” books from the chests, as well as empty books and quills, and burns them despite Dream’s protests, telling him if Sam hears him panicking over the items, he’ll come back - Dream begs Tommy to just wait, panicked, and gives him potatoes.
After quite a bit of arguing and Tommy nearly punching Dream into the lava multiple times, Sam says the prison is on lockdown. Tommy is incredulous. Dream says it’s not that bad, that they have tons of time to bond, and after Tommy repeatedly calls him dumb and evil, Dream loses his cool, yelling that Tommy’s the one that’s being dumb. Tommy calms down as the realization sets in, and the stream ends.
The next time we see Dream and Tommy, the scene opens with Tommy running around the cell, making loud noises, and Dream sitting in the cauldron, writing. He’s frustrated and asks Tommy to be quiet - who looks at the cat that seems to have appeared in the cell, calling it annoying. Dream disagrees, saying it’s the best thing that’s happened to them - Tommy tries to repeatedly lead it away from its place on the chest, however the cat always comes back. He keeps asking Dream questions, punching the cat to which Dream stands in front of it, asking him to stop. Sam appears to give them potatoes. He asks Sam to let him out, who refuses as the security issue hasn’t been fixed yet. Tommy complains about not having enough food, to which Dream gives him some as well as Sam dispensing more into the cell. Tommy punches Dream away from the potatoes, also getting the clock. He tells Sam that this feels like exile, but worse, saying he’s claustrophobic - he refuses once again, and leaves the two alone. Dream says it’s not that bad - that he’s gotten used to the cell, that he’s happy to have company and a cat with him. He burns the clock, and after Tommy asks to be let out again, suggests they escape together - Tommy says no, punching the cat as Dream tries to stand in front of it to take the blow. He asks Dream if he loves it, killing it when he says that he does and wants it to stay after Tommy leaves. In response to this, Dream says that the cat was hope he could stay in the prison and be content, however now he’s even more motivated to escape and get his revenge on everybody who’s wronged him. He says he’s grown tired of Tommy’s whining about being in the same box he’s been locked in for a hundred times longer - Tommy tells him he will never get out, and Dream promises to never use the revive book on him or his friends. He says he’ll be freed someday, because the only way he’ll ever revive anyone, is if he’s let out - Tommy reveals he doesn’t think the revive book, the only reason people are keeping Dream alive, is real. They argue, Dream asking if the fact he can’t be killed because of the leverage he holds makes him some kind of god - Tommy disputes that he has said leverage, Dream killing him as a result to prove the point that his life still holds value because he can bring people back to life.
In the aftermath of this event, Sam reacts by saying he didn’t anticipate Dream actually killing Tommy - hence he never reached the cell in time. When Bad mocks him for this, he replies saying that he thought he had “broken the will out of him” to act up that way. He also reveals that Dream laughed when he started screaming at him - he says he can’t think of worse ways to punish him than he already does, not knowing what time it is, without the clock and with only raw potatoes as food.
After this happens, Sam leaves for an island that we see in Quackity’s lore later on. Quackity comes to visit him, only to rile him up and give him the idea to kill Dream in retaliation - however, when they arrive in the prison, Sam realizes that Tommy trusted him to keep Dream locked up and alive, and decides against it because of his duty and the revive book.
Two days after Tommy died, he was revived once again, with Dream asking him questions about death and the limbo, such as how long he’s been there, who he’s talked to, and what it felt like. He says he was scared it wouldn’t work, because he had never tried it before; Tommy details that being dead felt horrible, he’s talked to Wilbur and Mexican Dream although Schlatt, strangely enough, appeared to be asleep. He expresses signs of trauma when Dream punches him after being asked to do so, and has somewhat of a breakdown in the cell. Dream proclaims he is a god as he can revive people, and Tommy says Wilbur said horrible things to him while he was in limbo with him, and tried to get Dream to promise him that he would never bring him back, declaring Wilbur worse and more dangerous than Dream ever was - Dream refuses, saying he is the only one with the power to decide on that, and he thinks Wilbur hasn’t done anything that bad. He also suggests experimenting on Tommy to find out more about the afterlife, and perhaps even become unkillable. Tommy realizes Dream is the revive book, in essence, and there is no other way to get rid of it than to kill him, to make sure Wilbur stays dead forever. Dream invites him to kill him, however Tommy realizes he can’t, because then he’ll be stuck in the cell alone forever - Dream even walks into lava for him, all the while detailing the possible consequences of such an act.
Dream says that when Tommy gets out, he can tell everyone the revive book is real - that he wasn’t lying. He also says since he can kill everyone and bring them back, they’re his puppets - when Tommy asks him why he killed him, Dream says he wouldn’t listen to him, and hence he had to prove the legitimacy of the revive book to him. He says he’ll let Tommy go, and not kill him again, just so that Sam doesn’t cut off his visitors further or starve him again - but also promises to bring back Wilbur, with whose help he will escape.
After eight more days, Dream and Tommy are still stuck together within the room, Dream remarking that he’s starving, confirming Sam hasn’t come back to give either of them food during the time since Tommy’s revival. He lets Tommy keep his when he says he has only one, and the two bicker after Dream hits him. They’re bored, waiting for the Warden, and have no idea how much time has passed - Tommy burns his food in lava as they argue again, before Sam finally arrives, and Tommy is released. Tommy warns him to not allow Dream any visitors, saying he plans to escape, and that Techno owes him a favor. He also calls Sam inadequate to run the prison.
After this experience, both Ranboo and Tommy start plotting to kill Dream, so that he can’t “bring back the villains” of the past, present, and future, allowing them to rid the world of such dangerous individuals for good.
However, another person also ends up becoming interested in the powers of the revive book - and that person, is none other, than Quackity.
He doesn’t intend to destroy its powers for good, though. He persuades Sam into letting him bring weapons into the cell as a means of getting the revive book, taking away the last bit of power Dream has, and allowing them to take his final life. Sam agrees in the end, giving him better tools before he steps into the cell, including netherite weapons and shears. During the first visit, Dream comments he hasn’t had a clock in a while, Quackity saying the cell doesn’t look very comfortable. He goes on to talk about Dream’s loss of control since he got locked up, to which Dream asks if he came to gloat. Quackity brings up Tommy’s death, and Dream is interested in other people’s reactions. The topic goes back to the revive book, Dream asking again whether people knew it was real now, saying it’s good that they do. Quackity begins to ask that he gives it to him, but Dream refuses, saying he burnt it a long time ago and it is preserved only in the form of knowledge. Quackty takes out the weapons, and after the initial shock, Dream begins to frantically yell for Sam, not knowing the two are working together. Quackity promises to come torture him daily until he gets the revive book from him.
Around this time, the prison’s keycards are stolen by Ponk. Sam builds him a room, planning on killing him and then burning him with lava, beating and poisoning him until he gives them back, even though at this point they aren’t even functional. (4:05 - 4:24) Ponk tries to talk him out of it, saying that the prison is controlling him as much as the Egg would, and that he’s changed. (6:26 - 6:38) Sam ends up cutting off one of Ponk’s arms, successfully getting every last one of the defunct keycards back.
Later on, while BadBoyHalo and Antfrost are handing out invites to the Red Banquet on behalf of the Eggpire, Sam greets them holding a clock and gives them empty books & quills he claims to have confiscated from Dream.
In Quackity’s next lore video, we get confirmation that he has in fact been coming in daily to torture Dream, always escorted by Sam, using different tools and staining his shirt’s sleeves red.
Tommy finally decides to come and kill Dream, sneaking in with an invisibility potion while using Ghostbur as an alibi. The lava starts dropping, and Dream seems to run around the cell once, before coming to a stop at the center. Ghostbur yells excitedly when he finally spots Dream on the other side. He looks at Ghostbur, coming closer to the edge to wave at him, but stops waving when he spots Sam. He backs off slightly, breaking eye contact with Sam. Ghostbur and Tommy cross the lava, and Dream has his back turned on Ghostbur.
As soon as Tommy arrives at the cell, and before the netherite bars drop, he reveals the Axe of Peace. Sam yells at them to stop. Dream takes a step towards the entrance, Tommy immediately turns to him, trying to hit him. Dream backs off until he hits the wall, letting out a small “What?”. Tommy crosses the bridge while Ghostbur stays. Tommy and Sam argue, Dream interrupts, but Sam shuts him down, telling Ghostbur to get further away from him.
Dream pleads for Sam to let him out, who tells everyone to shut up, as Tommy is asking Ghostbur if he can reach Dream to kill him. Dream yells that he has a hostage. Sam answers that he’s just a ghost, while Dream stammers that Sam wouldn’t let another person die.
Tommy starts insulting Sam, calling him a horrible warden and telling him to kill Dream, and they start arguing again. (31:00-31:13, 33:50-33:58) Dream shows that he has the revive book in his hands. Ghostbur starts pleading for Tommy to help him. Tommy and Ghostbur count to ten, Sam telling them to shut up. After he shuts down a last request to set Dream free, he kills Ghostbur as the lava starts covering the entrance.
After well over two months of daily visits, a scene opens with Quackity showing Dream which weapon he will use that day, choosing an axe. Dream tries to take it off the item frame, however fails and only gets himself in trouble, with Quackity yelling at him while he cowers. He says it’s getting tiring, but that he needs to come in to remind him every day about everything he’s done or else he’ll forget, to which Dream promises he won’t. Quackity then proceeds to ask him questions about his involvement and relationship with Technoblade, and tells him to write a note, inviting him to visit. He refuses to say why, but promises to give Dream a week-long break if he obeys. Dream doesn’t trust him, continuing to question his motives. He tries to compromise, offering to write a note to Sapnap instead. Quackity goes on to threaten to kill him, saying he doesn’t care about the revival book, and that he likes hurting Dream, because in his eyes, he can never pay back the amount of evil Dream’s done to everyone on the server. He says not even Sam can help him, swinging his axe around and hitting Dream with a sword while he begs him to stop. In the end, Dream agrees to write the note for him.
Outside of the cell’s confines, Foolish proposes to Sam an idea to reform Dream through community service. This idea is shut down immediately.
MichaelMcChill, a new addition to the server, also tries to break him out a couple of times because - because he. Because he thinks he’s hot???
Interestingly enough, Quackity doesn’t have the note to give techno and just tells him to visit Dream verbally - Techno does, getting trapped in the cell in the process. And, well, in the end: (4:24 - 4:40)
That’s it for the recap!
Thank you.
168 notes · View notes
writingsfromhome · 4 years ago
Text
Sorry x Rare
A/N: I got two lyric requests for Sorry by Beyonce and Rare by Selena Gomez. They were both sort of two sides of the same coin so I wrote them together it mostly goes from rare to sorry. Thanks for the requests, fingers crossed it lives up to what you wanted! <3
Synopsis: You and Harry have been together for a long time but he’s not the same man you fell in love with anymore.
-----
I move my dinner around on my plate, my gaze on the man pacing outside the restaurant on his phone. My man. But it didn't really feel like that these days. These days, Harry was a stranger to me--late nights, phone calls interrupting dinner, waking up to find him gone and not even sure if he'd come home at all.
I watch him remove the phone from his ear in a rush, stare at it, and then shove it aggressively in his pocket. He walks back in, cheeks pink and huffing.
"Should we ask for the bill?" He sits down in a flurry. I stare at his barely-eaten meal and my own dinner mashed to bits.
"We've barely had dinner."
"Babe, we've been here for over an hour since..." he takes his phone back out to inform me of how much time exactly but something must catch his attention because his sentence dies on his lips. I stare, he was so distant lately. "I'll drop you off at home, I've got to meet the boys they decided to talk business-"
"It's 8pm on a Thursday," I state the obvious. "Can't you catch up with them la-"
"This isn't an argument Y/N," Harry finally looks at me. He was done discussing it. He lifts his hands to the waiter and a minute later dinner's been paid for. He wasn't my baby, I think as we stroll outside to his car. I don't know who this man was.
***
I wake up the next morning with the weight of Harry on the other side of the bed. I could smell him, the booze sitting in his pores.
“Ugh,” I groan, not wanting to smell that first thing in the morning. I get up and start my day before I head to work. Soon, Harry appears squinting as I stir sugar into my coffee.
“I need a coffee,” he says, his voice hoarse. It used to sound sexy but now it was just another reminder that things changed. We lived like roommates and it hurt that he never wanted to talk. Half the time, he acted like I wasn’t even there.
I watch him settle with his coffee, taking the first sip and letting out a deep breath. A memory comes to me suddenly, the first year we were dating,
“I think this is the best coffee I’ve ever had,” it was the first night Harry had stayed the whole night and I’d made him coffee in my outdated coffee maker. It came out burnt half the time but that morning’s cup was decent. We’re swaddled in my blankets--the room I rented back then had poor circulation in the winter.
“I think you’re still slightly drunk,” I lean my shoulder against his and cup the warm drink. “I’ve definitely had better coffees.”
“Maybe coffees are just better the morning after,” he says, glancing at me and I know he can see the flush on my cheeks. He knew I was shy talking about certain things in the light of day.
“We can say that,” I mumble into the cup. “It’s just nice to have a heat source.”
“Here,” he takes the cup from me and reaches over to put both on the nightstand.
“Hey I wasn’t done with that.”
“I know but if you’re cold, I know this other heat source--it even works for hypothermia.”
His statement causes a blood rush that warms me already but I don’t say no to what he has in mind. I could make us another cup later.
Harry catches me staring when he looks over and raises an eyebrow. I snap out of my thoughts and twist my lips into a smile, looking back at my own drink bitterly. Who was this man in front of me? Out loud, I ask: “How was your night? You came in late.”
“I was out with the boys.” he says in a tone that meant he didn’t want to talk about it. “It got late.”
“A text would’ve been nice,” I say, still looking at my cup.
“S’not like you were waiting up,” he turns to walk back towards the bedroom.
“Learned not to,” I mumble but I know he’s heard me with the way he pauses. But he didn’t care enough to argue, dispute it, nothing. He leaves.
***
"Guess who just made a commission that's more than I used to earn in a year?" April walks into the small office, an infectious grin on her face.
"You sold him on it?" I put away the file I'm working on and jump up to hug my friend.
"I had to flirt a little--give him a vivid picture of what he could have there, and he signed! I'm bloody brilliant."
April was my American ex-pat who I met when she was looking for a flat a few years ago. And now here she was, working for me at the small real estate office I managed with a few other people I considered friends.
"Do you know if he was single?" I tune back in to hear Janelle asking.
"No, don't give her bad advice!" I scold Janelle. “We don’t date clients.”
"I'm miserably single," April pouts. "I'll take advice even if it’s bad."
"Bad advice is to stay with your college sweetheart to the point where you're not sure he even cares about you." I say to no one in particular. It was just us in the office today, and they knew everything about my life so I didn't care much. But the pin-drop silence that follows is different. I look up to see my friends eyeing each other. "What?"
"Nothing." They stay tight lipped but I push and they crack. "Well, so...we know things are rocky between you and Harry..."
"Things aren't rocky," I clarify. "They're just...nonexistent."
"Right," April slides closer. "Soo, we saw him at the club yesterday."
I raise my eyebrow, "He told me he was meeting up with his boys."
"Oh!" They sound surprised I know, but they look at each other again so I push them. "He was...there was a girl? Sitting on his lap for most of the night? Like, nothing happened I don't think so?" She turns to look at April at the end of each sentence.
Personally, I feel gut-punched even though I suspected this. I knew he wasn't where he said he was going to be sometimes, or with who he said he was going to be with. But he cut our own dinner short last night to be with strangers yesterday? I grip the pen in my hand.
"Y/N honestly...you know we love you and support you. But, you're a special girl and you deserve better than that sod."
"Yeah," Janelle puts her hand on my shoulder. "You're a gem Y/N. There's someone else out there who's gonna see how rare you are."
"I know," I blow my cheeks out. We'd had different conversations like this before, although never this direct. I guess we'd never had direct proof of what my husband was doing until now though.
"He's an idiot not knowing you're so rare," my friends try to comfort me. I feel my eyes well up and I swipe at them. I wasn't going to cry at work but they must sense the tears because they excuse themselves, "We're going to get you a tea, and some pastries to celebrate April's sale. April?"
I keep my face buried in my hands as they leave, take a few deep breaths. "I am rare," I say to myself but even that makes me laugh bitterly. Harry and I had been together for 5 years and here I was trying to count up all the reasons we should stay together when he didn't even care. He was out with other women, and I was waiting around for him.
"I'm rare," I say again. "I'm special, I deserve better. I...deserve better."
When will u be home tonight? I text Harry before I lose my nerve.
Busy he says. That’s it. And then, Why?
What time? I ask again.
8 or so, he responds.
Okay, we need to talk then. I put my phone away, too scared what he might text back. A tear falls from my cheek onto my keyboard, landing on the letter H. It mocks me. I wipe it off, and before I can think about what I'm doing I smash the letter down with my fist. I stand up and walk to the back of the office, a window overlooks the busy street. I'd had enough, I decide. Fuck Harry.
I’m not sure how long I stand there stewing, but my friends walking in with pastries and tea ends the emotional boiling pot from overflowing.
"Thanks," I take the cup from them.
“So we were talking and...” April looks at Janelle and she nods. “You should come out with us some time. Like...tonight. Dance with us, with other people...”
“I...I’ve got something at 8,” I come up with an excuse. As angry as I was, I wanted to have this conversation. It was long overdue.
***
I check my time again, the last text Harry sent me Ok. But it was 8:25 and Harry still wasn’t home. I’d give him five more minutes, I decide. I’d already tried to ring him with no answer.
I stare at the ring on my finger, it was supposed to symbolize a promise he made to me. What a fucking joke. I should’ve never said I do in the first place.
Was it young love, I wonder. Did we do this too fast and we were just set up to fail? But I remember the good memories, the soft and sweet times between us.
“I-I’ve never done something like this before,” I tell Harry. “I hate heights.”
“Listen,” he crowds around me, blocking my view of his friends who are walking up the narrow trail like it was any old walkway. “You go in front of me, I’ll have my hand on your back the whole time. I won’t let you fall. I promise.”
I look up into those gentle eyes and swallow my fear. “Okay.”
“I promise it will be so worth it,” he gushes, his excitement uncaged now that I’d agreed. “There’s no lights there so the stars are so bloody bright--I know you’re going to love it!”
I can’t help it, my lips crack into a smile at his boyish excitement. He catches it and pauses, a breath in this whirlwind of a night. What started out as a house party turned into a walk to a local beach which turned into a hike into the woods and up a precarious--and very steep--ridge to get to an isolated lookout. Only with Harry did I find myself in these situations. And I loved it. I loved him, I realise then. My expression must change because he tugs on my hand, probably worried I’d change my answer.
“Walk ahead,” he instructs and I nearly tip toe on the ridge that’s at least 30 feet across. But his steady hand on my back pushes me gently and I walk across confidently until I look down 2/3 of the way. I freeze in place but Harry’s ready. “Y/N, you’re safe here. Look at me-look...”
I crane my neck and he grounds me, oh my god how did I just realise now how in love I was with him? He squeezes my hand, asks if I was okay. I had to be, I couldn’t stay stuck in the middle.
Inch by inch we finally make it to the other side and I jump off with a yelp which sets Harry off in a burst of laughter. Pretty soon he’s lifted me over his shoulder and carries me to the lookout on the edge. My feet had been through enough, he’d said.
And he was right--it was so worth it; the view with all the stars laid out. The buildings and their light pollution below were blocked out by the outcrops and it made the stars twinkle in all their glory. It made it the perfect place to be with the person I loved.
“Isn’t it the most incredible view?” Harry whispers in awe behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist.
“I.....I have no words apparently,” I laugh and turn in his arms. “Thanks for pushing me, this...it was worth it.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ears and gazes at me in a way that makes me want to squirm. But I hold his gaze.
“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asks with a smile.
“Compared to the view,” I glance behind us. “I guess I’m alright.”
“No,” he guides my face back towards his. “This view over that one, any day. M’just that lucky.”
My words die on my lips as I’m overwhelmed by this feeling between us, the one I thought would keep us together like this forever.
He raises an eyebrow when I go silent and I shrug, “I’m all out of words today.”
I close my eyes as he kisses my temple. I turn back around and we spend the moment in silence, drinking in the view. His friends chatter around us but they’re background noise. My life felt like a movie right now.
Before we leave as a group, I tug Harry back. This was a good as place as any to tell him. I press my lips to his, and it takes him a second but he’s kissing me back. Before it can get carried away I push away and tell him what I’d been thinking all night, “I love you.”
He takes a step back, and then he’s grinning and pulling me back. “I love you! I love you listen, I’ve been wanting to say that for weeks!”
“Weeks?!”
“Yeah weeks! My sister said it was too soon, I might scare you off!”
I think about a few weeks ago, I was intensely shy around him even then. Maybe she was right, but the idea that he talked about me to his sister makes me flush. I wrap my arms around his waist “I just...this moment is so perfect. I never want it to end.”
“It doesn’t have to.” he’d promised. “I’m yours forever Y/N.”
When 8:30 comes and goes I call April, she lets me know where they were. “We’re so happy you’re coming! Are you sure you don’t want us to meet you somewhere else?” she shouts into the phone. When I tell her I just wanted to be where they were she reminds me to text them when I was nearby.
I have to dig into the back of my closet, past the pantsuits I wore to work, the casual dresses and loungewear. I still had some of my old party clothes, just a bit tighter than they used to be. But for where I was going, it would fit in.
Before I leave, I take a pen and scrawl a note: “Great talk"
My friends spot me as I walk in. The music is instantly too loud, the lights too bright, and there are too many people. But one of my them shoves a drink in my hand and pretty soon it’s the best place on earth. It was exactly where I needed to be. I turn off my cellphone and enjoy myself.
After a certain point, I don’t even know who I’m talking to, but pressed up against a body, feeling wanted, it drives me to keep dancing all night. Eventually, I crash at April’s and don’t roll out of hers until 11 the next morning. Harry’s barely an afterthought until I’m tucked in the taxicab taking me home and turn on my phone. 8 missed calls, 2 voicemails and 13 texts.
I’m shocked at the volume, Harry hadn’t blown up my phone like this in over a year. I listen to one voicemail: “Where the hell are you? I come home an hour late and you’re bloody gone with this stupid note here. Pick up! I’ve called you a billion times.”
I stare at my phone, I hadn’t heard Harry this passionate since...well it was a long time. And all it took was going out late and not answering his calls, giving him a taste of his own medicine. It almost makes me angrier; I had to partake in this juvenile dance to get his attention, even though we’d been married nearly 2 years.
He’s on a call when I get home, talking numbers or something. I head directly to the shower, clean up, and take my sweet time. It must’ve driven him mad waiting for me because by the time I’m out he blows a gasket.
“What’s this stunt you pulled last night? Wanting to talk and leaving me a stupid sarcastic note just because I’m late? Where were you?”
“Out,” I shrug. “I didn’t know you were late. You didn’t text.”
“I didn’t tex--oh I see, now we’re being petty yeah?”
That irked me, “I’m not being petty. It’s not like I get the same courtesy when you’re out late!”
“I’m busy, I can’t always be texting you!”
Excuses, I laugh and he looks at me like I’m crazy. “Busy what? Screwing other women-”
“Don’t be making shit up-”
“I’ve had people tell me that they see you with other women Harry! S’not a far stretch!”
That quiets him. Finally, he comes forward to stand inches away. “Y/N, c’mon. You and me...this is stupid. Sure I go out to party but I’m not-”
“Stop.” he was actually trying to talk his way out of this. And because I’d rather step in front of an oncoming train than cry in front of him, I head to the front door and walk out. I’d find someplace to crash today, but I wasn’t doing this.
***
“How’re you doing?” Janelle asks. I’d shown up at her doorstep and she set up her guest bed. She had plans so I spent most of my time burying myself in work, trying to get rid of all that angry energy pent up in me. Janelle had just come home.
“I’m just trying to move on. I don’t want to talk about him, I just don’t care at this point--I’m fed up!”
“As you should be,” she agrees. “Listen, I know we had a crazy night yesterday but I’m going out with some friends today and...maybe it’ll help you?”
I think about the killer headache this morning, but I also remember how good it felt to forget for a bit. I agree. Before I know it, Janelle’s found something that fits me and we’re back at a different club than the night before. Her friends are familiar faces but after a few drinks we’re all best friends. It feels great. Until I spot Harry’s face.
“That’s enough,” his face looms over mine as he pushes away the man I’m up against.
“What the fuck Harry...” I trail off as he pulls me away from the middle of the crowd. I try to pry his hand off but there’s too many people and he’s moving too quickly...and I’ve had a lot of drinks. “Let me go!” I say when we finally step away. We’re in what must be a private room. He seemed familiar with it--of course.
“So just because you heard I’m out and about some nights, you decide to come here and fuck around with random men?”
“Excuse me?” I stare at him, he was out of his mind. “I’m out having fun with my friends! I’m not here because of you.”
“Really? You come to the same place I come to all the time and dance with these strangers? And you’re drunk as fuck!”
“Since when did you care?” I ask. “Just leave me alone. You’ve been doing that perfectly fine the last few months.”
“I’m your bloody husband Y/N, you can’t just-”
“Then act like one!” I shout, and in the muffled quiet of the room with the bass thumping through it rings out. “I don’t need you! And you made it clear you don’t need me. These rings are a fucking joke, here-” I take mine off and throw it at him.
“You don’t mean it-”
“I do.” I give him a level stare, suddenly clear-headed. Maybe I’d process it later, but right now I was finally seeing what he’d become. He deserved to feel how I felt, and quite frankly, I didn’t give a fuck. I flip him with both hands, “Quite frankly Harry, you can suck my d-”
“Harry!” A shrill voice rings out from the entrance that now carries the loud beats of the dance floor, swallowing my words. “Liam told me you were here!”
I glance at the brunette in the doorway and back at him. I couldn’t even muster an eye roll; I had enough.
“Y/N!” Harry calls my name as I walk out.
“No it’s me, Becky?!” she tries to correct him. I can’t help but laugh as I make my way back to my friends with a drink in my hand, feeling free.
***
“Y/N, it’s Harry. I don’t know how it got this shite just please call me back. Just give me five minutes that’s all I n--message deleted”
“He’s moved on to the office phone then?” Janelle asks, her desk was beside mine so she’d heard him as I checked my messages. It was two weeks since that glorious night when I’d dumped Harry’s ass. Although a lot of my things were still at our house, I was just staying in a hotel right now while I figured things out. One thing I knew for sure though, I didn’t want to see him again.
“It’s pretty pathetic,” I say. It was also pathetic how long I’d stayed waiting around for us to be magically fixed. But that was something I was working on getting past.
“You’re glowing without him,” April says from where she’s getting her files together. “Haven’t you got that showing out east?”
“Yeah, oh god is that the time?” I rush to get my files in order. “I’ll catch up with you later-”
“We’re still getting drinks after?”
“Yes, drinks!” I call out as I leave the office and head down to the lobby. I don’t expect Harry there, and I barely have time for him as he comes up to keep my pace.
“Harry, I’ve got somewhere to be please leave me alone.”
“Y/N, wait just please listen to me.”
“No.”
“2 minutes!”
“Not even 1,” I spot my cab out front and head towards it. I’m about to get in but Harry holds the door. “Harry let go I’m going to be late.”
“Just let me talk to you, please!”
I finally look at him and he’s quite a sight. His hair is matted and without it’s usual bounce. He’s got a rough look and a 5 ‘o clock shadow.
“You had plenty of time to talk to me for months, you were too busy at the club. Sorry not sorry,” I tug at the door and he lets go, I don’t spare a backwards glance as we drive away.
One of the showings is successful, I manage to sell the family on the home and we set up a meeting to go over details at my office later in the week. I’ve got a bounce in my step as I return to the office. I tell the girls I’d meet them at the bar as I finalize my papers at the office. My bounce falters when I go head out after 5 to see Harry waiting outside the building.
“Y/N,” he calls out when he sees me. “I’m not going to leave until you talk to me.”
“That’s called stalking,” I say. A few people walking past us turn to glance at him and he notices. He moves to the inside lobby and asks me to follow. With a big sigh I do.
“I know what I did.” he begins.
“Congratulations,” I roll my eyes.
“No wait, I know what I did to you. And sorry can’t cover it. Just let me make it up to you, we have history and-”
“You don’t get it.” I stop his monologue from going any further. “I’m gonna be just fine. Without you. You didn’t care about our history until you couldn’t have me. I don’t know what happened to you Harry, but you’re not the man I fell in love with-”
“I know,” he says, tears of frustration coating his lashes. “I fucked up, I-I didn’t see what I had right in front of me and I just-”
“Let her slip away? Is that the best you can come up with?” I scoff. “You know what Harry? I’m done with this! Boy...bye.”
“Y/N just--” he grabs my arm before I can leave and pushes something cold into my palm. My wedding ring.
“I don’t want this,” I push it back in his hand.
“Please just take it--hold onto it,” he pushes it back into mine and closes my fingers over it. “I can’t...I can’t hold onto it just take it! You don’t even have to think about it-”
“Harry,” I soften my tone. He was desperate and even though some part of me thought it was about time he felt this type of way, my heart hurt a little. I didn’t want him to see that though so I just tuck the ring into the pocket of his button up and pat it. “Goodbye Harry.”
I walk away with my head held high even though he calls out to me. I walk the few blocks to where my friends are waiting and their warm smiles are enough to help me push the memory of Harry’s teary eyes, and the real history we did have once upon a time away. I was done with him, no longer thinking about him.
I just kept telling myself, I was rare like a gem and I had to see that. And maybe one day, someone else will too.
174 notes · View notes
fishfingersandjellybabies · 4 years ago
Text
You’ll Have To Come and Find Me - fic
Characters: Tim Drake, Damian Wayne Summary: Damian runs into someone on his way to the League of Lazarus’ tournament. The last person he wanted to see. The last person who should have been looking for him. A/N: Just a thought in my brain that wouldn’t quit. Dialogue heavy. Shittily written idk. ‘Polarize’ by TwentyOne Pilots is such a Damian song to me, and was in my head while writing this, so inspired the title. Might continue this idea a little bit as the Robin series continues, who knows.
~~
He was counting the money from his fight with King Snake as he walked into the café. That’s why he didn’t notice. That’s why he didn’t see.
That’s what he told himself.
But after he walked in the door, he found himself freezing as he looked up.
No.
He’d been so careful, so deliberate. He didn’t leave any traces. He knew he didn’t. There was no way they could find him.
And of course, he couldn’t even back out now. Couldn’t sneak back out of the restaurant, back into the darkness. Because Timothy Drake was already lowering his cup of tea and raising his head to look at him.
They stared at each other for a second. Two. Three. Four. Five. Faces blank, mouths shut.
Then Tim smiled, turned towards the café’s counter and waved. The barista nodded and started on a drink.
Nope. No turning back now.
“How did you find me?” Damian demanded as he stomped forward. Tim motioned to the empty, waiting, chair across from him. A glass of water was already there, as was an empty plate.
Tim shrugged. “Wasn’t that hard.”
“Liar.” Damian spat. “I covered my tracks. I made sure-”
“You made sure Bruce couldn’t find you.” Tim countered, pulling his napkin onto his lap. “And I am not Bruce.”
“…Oracle is smarter than you.” Damian tried.
“Absolutely.” Tim took another sip of his tea. “But I know you better.”
“You don’t know me at all.” Damian crossed his arms. He nodded a thanks to the waiter as he brought Damian’s drink, and a basket of bread. It was tea, like Tim’s, and he could see two sugar cubes dissolving in the bottom.
…His preferred preparation.
He never told Tim how he liked his tea. He never told Tim he liked tea at all.
He glanced up to the elder. Tim smiled behind his own cup and raised his eyebrows. See?
Damian huffed, taking the drink. “What do you want?”
“To find you. Duh.”
“To what, mock me? Remind me of my failures? Rub it in my face that once again you prove you’re better than me?” Damian listed. But as he spoke, Tim’s amused face fell back into stoic, blank.
“No. I wouldn’t do that in the first place. Not…” He lowered his cup once more, stared into the liquid. “Not now, anyway.”
Damian narrowed his eyes, gaze bouncing around Tim’s face, trying to read it. Trying to figure his predecessor out.
“Really?” Damian drawled in disbelief. “So, you’re not here to gloat about how Father gave you Robin back?”
Damian was surprised to see Tim’s face darken, just a little. “I didn’t want it back. He forced it on me in a weird grief-fueled crusade after you disappeared.” Tim glanced up. “A lot’s happened since you left.”
“I’ve been back since I renounced Robin. All this tracking me and you didn’t know that?”
“No, I mean, even since then.” Tim sighed. “…Did you know Dick had regained his memories before you helped save him and the family?”
Damian pursed his lips, stared at the basket of bread. “…No.”
“…How are you feeling about that?” Tim asked softly.
“I don’t need your pathetic brand of therapy, Drake.” Damian snapped.
“I’m not trying to play therapist, I’m just trying to make sure my little brother is okay.” Tim shot back just as harshly. “Especially since he’s running off to some secret tournament that he could die in.”
Tim’s mouth clamped shut then, and Damian watched him. “…How did you know about that?”
“That’s not important, here, okay, I just-”
“It is to me.” Damian countered. “Tell me or I’m leaving.”
Tim glowered back at him. “I’ll follow you.”
“Not if I break your leg.”
“Why do you…!” Tim cut himself off in a sigh, slumped back in his chair. “I got word Talia was in town, followed her tracks. Saw the security footage from her apartment when you went and met her. Heard about that League of Lazarus thing and looked into it.”
“How did you look into it?” Damian asked. “Even I didn’t know about it. And if Mother wasn’t forthcoming with me, I can’t see her being a source of information for you.”
Now it was Tim’s turn to cross his arms and look away.
Damian studied him for a moment, then let his eyes go wide. “…You didn’t.”
“Look, I said it didn’t matter-”
“You did not contact Grandfather for information.” Damian practically begged. “Drake!”
“You know as well as I do he’ll give me anything I want if I’m the one to reach out to him.” Tim reassured quickly. “And sorry if my brother’s safety is a good reason for me to contact an enemy!”
Damian glared at him for a moment before looking at the clean white plate. “…Stop calling me your brother.”
“Oh, for god’s sake, Damian-”
“Because after what I’ve done, I don’t deserve the title.”
Tim paused then, stared right back. Sighed and leaned forward to grab his tea again.
“What happened wasn’t your fault.” Tim whispered. “Definitely not Dick, not Alfred…especially not Alfred…I know you think it is, and trust me, I get that. I felt the same back when my dad died. Bruce.” A moment. “…You.”
Damian glanced up at him.
“I get that you think it was. Because you were there, because you’re supposed to be a hero, that’s what the world thinks you are, but…It’s not, Damian. It never was. You’re just a kid. A kid in a shitty, traumatic situation.” Tim hesitated, and Damian watched as he swallowed a lump in his throat. “And we just want you to come home.”
“Why?” Damian asked quietly. “I’ll do nothing but hurt all of you.”
“Can I make a counterpoint to that?” Tim asked. “What do you think you’re doing to us now? Disappearing? We don’t know how you are, or if you’re even alive. Don’t you think that’s hurting us too?”
“…It shouldn’t.”
“Well. It does.” Tim sniffed. “That’s why I’m here. That’s part of why Babs became Oracle again. That’s why Dick wants to use the fortune Alfred left him to find you.”
“Forget about me.” Damian shook his head. “You’ll all be better off. Grayson especially.”
“A matter of personal opinion. An opinion I highly disagree with.” Tim shrugged. “And just because Dick, arguably, loves you the most, therefore is the most heartbroken with you not there, doesn’t mean he’ll be better off if you just…vanish from his life like you weren’t ever there in the first place.”
“He thrived without any memories of me as the cab driver, so we have proof that he would be.” Damian explained. “Besides. Time heals all wounds. Or whatever. You’ll all forget about me if you give yourself the chance to.”
“And I think you dying is proof that we won’t, and can’t.” Tim leaned forward more, reaching for Damian’s hand. Damian allowed him to take it. “Which is why I���m here.”
“I’m not going back to Gotham, Drake. I can’t.” Damian murmured, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “I’m not…I can’t be there. Right now.”
“I know. I know I said we want you home, but I never said I was taking you back. I told you I’m out here to find you.”
“Well. Congratulations.” Damian said bitterly. “You did.”
Tim smiled. “Great.” He squeezed Damian’s hand and released it. “So, where’s this island? For the tournament?”
Damian furrowed his brows. “What?”
“I’m not taking you home. I promise.” Tim let his grin widen, become just a little too shit-eating. “But that doesn’t mean I’m leaving you.”
“…You’re not serious.”
“My goal was to find you. And not lose you again. The only way to do that is to not leave you, in my deductions.” Tim winked. “Besides, you were right – this Lazarus Tournament sounds interesting. And concerning. You’re gonna need backup. More than the folks we know who are gonna be there already, anyway.”
“…How do you know who’s in the tournament?” Damian asked slowly. Tim just pursed his lips, blinked, and grinned. Damian sighed. “After this tournament, I’m making sure my grandfather never contacts you again.”
“Hey, sometimes it’s nice having a super-villain obsessed with you.” Tim shrugged. “Helped me get you back, after all.”
“All the more reason I’ll have to kill him.”
Tim laughed at that, took a piece of bread for himself. “…You okay with me tagging along?”
Damian sipped his tea. “Not in the slightest.”
“Good.” Tim glanced at his watch. “About an hour until your boat arrives. That’s enough time for you to rest a little while we figure out an outline of a plan to take out this League of Lazarus.”
At that, Tim turned, digging in the backpack he had hanging off his chair. Damian watched him as he pulled out papers and notebooks, dropping them on the table between them.
And he didn’t want it. Didn’t deserve it. His family deserved better. Drake deserved better. Drake had better things to do than chase him, a failure, across the world, and hardly for either of their own sakes. All for the sake of their family. Because Tim loved them. Because Damian loved them. Because Tim loved Damian too.
“…Drake?” Damian whispered. Tim glanced up. “…Thank you for finding me.”
Tim blinked, and let his face drop into a smile. “Any time, little brother.”
151 notes · View notes
autolovecraft · 2 years ago
Text
The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon.
Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch.
There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you got what you deserved.
Why did you do it, Birch? He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not care to imagine.
Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not an evil man. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that.
It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb.
God, what a rage! Being without superstition, he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar.
He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. Sawyer died of a malignant fever. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before.
Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. He could not walk, it appeared, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare.
Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. I suppose one should start in the cold December of 1880, when the ground froze and the cemetery delvers found they could dig no more graves till spring. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. Davis, an old-time village practitioner, had of course seen both at the respective funerals, as indeed he had attended both Fenner and Sawyer in their last illnesses. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. I'd hate to have it aimed at me! Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. Sawyer in their last illnesses. He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. An eye for an eye! The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. It may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities.
He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives.
As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales.
The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch.
And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. In this twilight too, he began to realize the truth and to shout loudly as if his horse outside could do more than neigh an unsympathetic reply. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been just fear, and it may have been encouraging and to others may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. Birch, but you always did go too damned far!
I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here.
I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly.
0 notes
Text
Things You Said When it was Over
Somewhere else, anger, a truce, and fight, and a happy ending
cw Jon's typical level of wanting to die but not actually wanting to die, fighting, mentions of vomit but no vomit, mentions of stabbing, mentions of stitches, losing time
Spoilers for 200
Let me know if you enjoyed!  Stop back in a week for another fic. I am accepting Things You Said prompt list prompts for Jon, Martin, and/or Tim!  I have two prompts in my inbox and both have been back written, but if you are wondering if I have ignored your prompt, chances are I have not!
Being unwound hurts.  Unwound.  Rewritten.  Removed.  Pulled and crumpled and twisted and extracted.  Spun in with a web of tapes.  
Masses of crinkling magnetic strips.  Unsure where voice, and web, and body, and blood intersect.  
Woven and ripped through that careful crevasse.  
And it hurts.  Much more than being stabbed.  With that awful scratch and skittering of strands being eaten by an eager, hungry machine.  
As time and entities and two people are chewed through and eaten with all the care of a faulty cassette player.  
It’s a shriek of static, the thrumming whine of machinery wound wrong.  The deafening scrabble of unknowable and terrible things going Elsewhere.  Loud enough that the explosion doesn’t even register.  Just a background whine to the overpowering white noise of the end of the world moving.  
And Jon wakes up.  
With a gasp.  Small.  And so painfully normal.  Like his POTS flaring up and waking up in the break room.  Again.  
That hasn’t happened since the world ended.  Since things went wrong.  
A strange thing to reminisce about.  POTS isn’t something he thought he’d miss.  And… well… he doesn’t?  Didn’t?  Doesn’t know the tense to use because there was that slim, slim chance that everything is actually okay.  The smallest, most fragile idea that things are back to that idyllic normal of the safehouse.  
He doesn't move for a while.  Focusing on breathing.  It's cold.  He isn't sure if the air is cold or if he's experiencing cold himself, or if this is just a new way of feeling pain.  He can't tell.  
His chest hurts, but he can't make himself check for blood.  Moving is still a little too beyond him.  
He wants to open his eyes, and look for Martin, but he doesn't want this to go away.  Because if he's alive, then Martin must be too, right?  Martin was much more likely to survive this.  Not being... you know, stabbed?  
But what if only Jon is somewhere else?  What if this is somewhere Martin couldn't follow?
In that case, Jon would rather not be alive at all.  If he doomed all the other universes because he couldn't go through with it in the end... if he gave it all up for Martin... he can't live with that.  He can't.  More than not wanting to, he just... Can't.  
Then again everything is... kind of numb so he can't actually be sure that Martin isn't there... but he is never that lucky.  Jon never gets the privilege of the best case scenario.  
Breathing still hurts.  But he doesn’t think it hurts in the “breathing around a knife” sort of way.  Then again, after bearing witness to the pain of Everyone on the planet, a single wound is hardly a drop in that ocean with all the other pain just Gone.  
“Jon!  Jon!  Can you hear me?”
He cracks his eyes open, and is met with the safe house ceiling.  Eyes struggling to focus, trying to find the source of the voice that certainly sounds like Martin, but Jon is too sore to move.  The force of it hitting him out of nowhere, without him even trying to lift a finger.  Senses filling the void of 7 billion people screaming with the voices of scars and joints and exhaustion and hunger.  
The best response he can manage is a wheezy groan.  
Wheezy?
Does he need his inhaler again?  Did Martin pack that even?  He hasn’t needed it… since… the world ended.  
Everything’s blurry.  Where did his glasses go?  
“Oh thank Christ!”  
Jon makes to sit up, but stars burst in his vision, and his arms give out.  
Martin’s hands fluttering around him.  Flying to his chest.  
Jon carefully reaches for his chest also.  There is a hole in his shirt.  Well.  A lot of holes, but he’s only looking for one.  
He feels tacky blood on its way to drying.  And as he carefully probes further, he finds a tidy line of stitches in slightly sticky thread, that he has a sinking suspicion is spider’s silk.  A final gift.  A thank you.  He wants to vomit.  
But Martin’s hand catches his, stopping him from potentially hurting himself.  Jon stretches his free hand to cup Martin’s cheek.  He finds it wet.  
It occurs to him that Martin has been crying.  Is crying?  Jon can’t tell.  His face is too far away to see more than the fuzzy outline.  (Not that Martin’s face is actually far away, Jon just has shit vision).  
Crying, present tense, Jon assesses, when Martin shakes with a suppressed, silenced sob.  “How could you do that Jon?  Fuck!  I mean… I knew you would.  But how could you do that?  You Lied to me.  You could have Died!  And I know you didn’t.  But Jon, I… I can’t.  You Promised me!  You Promised!  I…  How could you make me do that?  To you?  How could you?  I…  Jon, how could you?”  Martin’s crying too hard to get anything else out, and Jon still hasn’t managed to find enough breath and energy to speak.  
Jon whines.  Too exhausted to even sign.  
Martin’s hand on his chest.  Still trying to keep the blood in, even when there is no blood trying to get out anymore.  Martin’s usually warm hand icy (Jon hopes with fear, and not the Lonely, but he can’t know.  Firstly because he can’t break another promise, Secondly because he doesn’t think he can Know anymore, and thinking about trying makes his stomach drop.)  
And Jon just… can’t.  He rolls on his side away from Martin.  Curling up tightly.  Against the angry words and the guilt, and the rest of the guilt, and the pain in his body.  He’s doomed infinite worlds.  He’s betrayed everyone who ever cared about him… who he ever cared about.  He caused so much pain and he sat back and watched.  It seared through him the entire time of unknown and uncountable quantity that made up the apocalypse.  
All the words that he could never say, the guilt he could never express, all his own fear that had been just as much a meal for his god choking him.  
And he braces for the hate and the rest of the yelling, and everything else he deserves.  Everything he brought upon himself, one poor choice after another.  
Squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself gone and wills that if he doesn’t just vanish out of everything that Martin will get done yelling quick so maybe Jon can grovel some comfort out of him, even if it isn’t forgiveness, it will be better than the aching nothing that has been threatening to overtake him since he tasted the bitter words of the false statement.  
Martin more than deserves his anger, but Jon can’t take it.  He’s literally held together by spider silk.  He’s worn and tired and battered.  Guilt plunging deeper than Martin’s knife ever could.  
Not that he’s not grateful for this time with Martin.  Not that he doesn’t deserve every centimeter of guilt piling up on him.  He deserves all the hate.  And all the anger.  
He’s spineless, and he knows it.  He Almost did the right thing, but he couldn’t.  And he almost lost everything he cares about.  And now he probably still has.  And… and what?  What now?  Martin elected to stay with him despite it all, on one stupid, slim chance that things could be okay, but how can they be okay ever again, with this aching hole of fault and blame and regret and shame pulling at his core.  And he wants to be pulled open and rip it out.  He wants to enjoy what he has, but he can’t and Martin has every reason to hate him.  
He’s lost time.  
Martin’s calling his name, and his limbs are stiff and numb from bracing for an impact that never came.  
“Jon.  Christ.  Jon!  I’m… I… I didn’t mean to scare you.  I… I don’t hate you.  I love you, I promise.  …I’m… angry.  And we need to talk about this.  But… but I think that should wait until you’re up for talking, and I’m up for not crying for ya know, more than five minutes at a time.  ….And Fuck.  I just… well.  You owe me a good screaming at, too.  And Goddamn it, you were just doing what you thought was right… and you tried to tell us… tell me.  I’m not saying you were right, because you weren’t… but I’m not saying you were wrong.  And.  Well.  We’re both here.  Please.  I’m sorry for yelling.  Can I touch you?”
Jon nods jerkily.  Because he can’t stand the distance between them.  He doesn’t care if touch can get him hurt, he’d take hurt over the space between them.  
Martin holds him like he’s precious and Jon cries.  
Harder than he has in a very long time.  
And when he’s done he’s empty and shaking and filthy.  
They shower and sleep.  In the morning they can shout at each other for broken promises and wandering off, and not communicating enough, and not listening when the other is trying to communicate.  And one leaves in a huff, and one cries himself sick in the bathroom, and there is hugging and a trip to town for tea and figuring out if this is the universe they saved or one of the infinite they doomed.  And there are years for the aftershocks of those arguments to bounce around, losing energy in the form of heat: tea, hugs, hot showers, overeager workouts, kisses a little too rough, hugs a little too tight, a strange combination between fierce affection, and things a little too much to make them feel like they are accomplishing something.  
And they can grow whole once more.  
And they can grow old.  
144 notes · View notes