#what kind of fuckery can rook come up with now?

[rookfeatherrambles]

time travel au but make it fucked. I've figured out what the thing I wrote is. Make it Jmart. Make it Jonelias. Make it weird. Soooooo Martin discovers a door in the tunnels when Jane attacks, and afterwards, he keeps dreaming about the door. Eventually, he goes looking for it. He's not expecting to find a multi story library behind it, working electricity, or a man chained to a wall, reading a book. He's definitely not expecting the man to drop the book upon the sight of him and he's not expecting the man to try and reach him like he's desperate for it. Or the wings. Martin isn't prepared for the wings either. Good Lord, he's found an angel, locked away under the Institute. The man (Angel) is striking and beautiful, even if he does have too many eyes sometimes and also (the bloody giant wings???? what the fuck???) and he (It???????) seems to know Martin. Or wants to, deeply. The problem is, Martin doesn't understand, and he doesn't feel the same. (except for concern for its??? his?? well being, because I'M SORRY WHAT THE FUCK?) Martin doesn't understand why it doesn't just tell him what it wants, until he realizes it cannot speak. Then he gets the bright idea to use one of the mouldering books (some are newer, he notes) to write like a message or something. Then the Angel rips it out of his hands (okay, rude) and stuffs the page into its mouth (what the fuck, again) and... then it speaks, in a voice both raspy and emotional, it tells him its name. Its name is Jon, and its been waiting 200 years to meet him.

WHAT IS MARTIN SUPPOSED TO SAY TO THAT?

[leothelionsaysgrrrr]

3, 11, 12, and 24 from the Rook questions!

3. What was Rook’s life before their faction?

Rook’s story is, of course, that he was adopted as a baby by an Imperial Legion commander who found him on a battlefield near Ventus, moved around a lot, trained to fight and bothered everyone while doing it, worked as a bodyguard for Minrathous’s most elite courtesans in a high end pleasure house, then for a magister when one of the courtesans he protected inherited a Senate seat from an estranged uncle, and later joined the Shadow Dragons to make a difference. 

Which is, of course, complete and utter bullshit. Except for the bothering people, there's no version of this story where he isn't bothering people.

Now, Falx Verus Mercar was a guard at the Ivory Oasis for several years, and their most prominent courtesan, Silver, did through some inheritance fuckery from his maternal uncle become a magister around the time of the Exalted Council, and he did bring his dear and trusted friend Mercar with him as his personal bodyguard. But Falx Verus Mercar himself is a fiction, and didn’t exist at all until about a decade ago, when he needed a new name and cover story for what this snarky long-haired beardy guy was doing in Minrathous when noted scoundrel and infamous frumentarius - a spy, saboteur, fixer, thug, slave hunter, general doer of dirty work for the magister who employed him, basically his job was to make his boss's problems disappear and be a problem to everyone else - Rexus Leventis had long since been presumed dead. Coming back gave him a chance to start over, and the new name and new story let him do the real work he came back to do - use the skills and knowledge gained in his youth to help Silver help people escape slavery, and grow into a better person himself - unbothered. Mostly.

11. Does Rook keep up with current events? (How aware of the situation are they at the start of the game?)

He has a local ear to the ground, as one might expect, and is quite familiar with the Antaam invasions in the east since Silver's - sorry, Magister Sisenna's - holdings are near Carastes and he actually bothers taking care of the people he represents. Traveling with Varric got him up to speed on a lot of things going on outside Tevinter, but he usually has a pretty good idea of what's going on at any given time. He just likes to seem like he's completely oblivious because it annoys people.

12. Does Rook have any family? Do they keep in touch?

He's the firstborn son of a prominent Altus family, but his father disowned him when he failed to manifest magic. His mother hated his father, so she doted on him as best and as publicly as she could - it was at her suggestion that another magister (Rexus's father's best friend and his mother's longtime lover) agreed to employ Rexus as one of his frumentarii. He also has a golden child younger brother who everyone knows was born solely to replace him, and they've never liked each other. His father was among those assassinated when Rexus's last job went bad and ended with a lot of dead magisters, including his boss, and his mother went into hiding after that. He's not sure she's even still alive. His brother masterminded the whole thing to seize power in the Magisterium and remains there to this day. He's not Venatori, and does actively oppose them, but he's definitely not one of the good ones and would have Rexus killed on sight if he knew he'd survived.

So, yeah. They don't keep in touch.

24. Does Rook have any nightly rituals before bed?

He’s very much a "fall into bed face down, arms and legs out, stay there until morning" kind of guy. He’s at least let Silver prevail upon him to use a silk pillowcase for the sake of his hair. The one hygiene thing he's always been really fastidious about is taking care of his teeth, though, so he'll do that before bed if nothing else to have an excuse to see how long he can gargle something. And how long it will take before someone tells him to stop.

50 questions for Rook!

[consumedkings-archive]

ancient names, pt. xix

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt xix: messy hearts

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~11.2k  

Rating: Explicit; they bang it out. 

Warnings: mentions/depictions of murder-suicides(though none very graphic, only mentioned in passing and after the fact, if that changes anything). Unreliable narrators abound. I think that's all, but if there's anything I missed please let me know.

Notes: I'm going to keep these notes brief just because the chapter is quite a hefty one! We finally get some plot movement, a look into how Elliot got her mantra to Keep Going Anyway mantra, and boy howdy if you thought things were bad before just fucking wait.

I have so many people to thank and I just don't know how to express my gratitude. @shallow-gravy, you are a pure angel and I just adore you so much. Thank you for being so wonderful and for cheering my girl on always, no matter what! @lilwritingraven ilysm!!! You are so sweet and I just don't think this chapter would have happened without you.

And of course, absolutely none of this fic would be possible without @starcrier's unending love and support. The amount of MEMES, the amount of screenshots and meltdowns and in general just fuckery she puts up with nonstop is remarkable and I honestly believe that without her support we wouldn't have gotten where we are today!!!

I anticipate there is, perhaps, one or two chapters left of Ancient Names. Thank you everyone who has supported, even by a single like or kudos or comment; this community is so incredible and I am so so so grateful for every friend I have made. <3

The U.S. Marshal arrives ahead of schedule.

That is to say, nobody is ready for him. Everyone seems a little nervous. He’s familiar with the area—“Familiar enough,” Whitehorse says, and Elliot thinks she can sense a bit of disdain in his voice; people don’t take well to outsiders traipsing around like they own the place, and Cameron Burke certainly carries himself with an amount of confidence that might come off as arrogant.

“Hey,” he says, when she passes him in the hallway, “you’re the rookie, huh?”

She’s already tired of being called rookie—Rook is fine, she supposes, because she likes the way it makes her sound like the chess-piece, the bull-dozer, straightforward and brutal—but she nods, clearing her throat and holding out her hand. “Elliot.”

Burke shakes her hand. There’s a bright, easy grin on his face. “Yeah, I read about you, Honeysett,” he tells her, and for a second her stomach drops; the shame rises up in her throat like a second wave of exhaustion, but he plunges on, “you fuckin’ killed it at the Academy. Flying colors, everyone tells me.”

Relief floods her system. “Tried, anyway,” she says, unaccustomed to compliments regarding her work and more accustomed to dodging questions about why Whitehorse had to think twice about letting her on. “It was—I like the work. Of training, I mean. School. I’ve always liked school.” Fuck, she’s rambling and she can tell—she’s rambling because she’s nervous he’s going to ask, but Burke watches her for a moment.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” he says after a brief pause. “This place could use some new blood. Kinda dusty, don’tcha think?”

Elliot nods. It’s hard not to smile when he’s flashing his teeth boyishly, when he sticks a toothpick in his mouth and winks at her before he sets off. It is kind of dusty, in Hope County, she thinks—and she likes it, this little stretch and slice of home, but it does need new blood. Once they clear the cultists out, it’ll be like new; and then her life will really begin.

She’ll really start over.

Joey doesn’t like him much. “Sounds like a prick,” she says that night over takeout, her legs draped across Elliot’s lap.

“I like him,” she says, fishing her chopsticks around in Joey’s takeout box for a spare bite of broccoli. “He was... Nice. To me.”

“Oh?” Joey cocks a brow at her. “You had a little chat with our friend the U.S. Marshal?”

“Just in the hallway,” Elliot replies quickly, “on my way out today, I passed him. He said he read my file.”

Joey isn’t staring at her, but she doesn’t need to be for Elliot to know that she’s listening. She’s digging around in her noodles for something when she makes a low, quiet noise of inquisition, as though to say, is that so?, because she knows what that usually entails.

“He just mentioned I got good marks,” she murmurs after a moment. “At the Academy.”

“Well, you did,” Joey says. Elliot huffs out a short little laugh and smiles.

“I know. Just nice to be recognized for my greatness.” She crinkles her nose. “Whitehorse just kind of looks at me like he’s worried I’ll fire off.”

“Oh, Elliot! So strong, so smart, so fast, so capable of shooting a man on foot or by vehicle!” Joey wails dramatically. “Your hand in marriage, I beg it of thee!”

Elliot rolls her eyes and shoves Joey’s legs off of her lap, stretching and coming to a stand. “Yeah, yeah, fuck you.”

“Not before marriage, though,” her friend intones somberly. “Joseph “The Father” Seed wouldn’t have any pre-marital fucking in his domain.”

“I don’t think he’s as stiff on that as everyone thinks he is.” Elliot walks into the kitchen and uncorks the bottle of wine, pouring herself a new glass. “Aren’t cults supposed to be weird about that kind of thing?”

She can hear Joey scoff in the living room. “You’re going to be with us tomorrow. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“Oh, great idea! ‘Hi, The Father? Do you fuck, or nah?’ He won’t be expecting that at all.”

“Perfect. See how Burke feels about that pro-strategy.”

Elliot laughs and settles herself back on the couch, holding the glass of wine in both of her hands; the fragrance of it swims in her head pleasantly. Tomorrow they take the U.S. Marshal down to the compound and finally root the Seeds out of here. For good.

She says lightly, “Anyway, I want to get tomorrow done as fast as possible.” A little sigh escapes her.

“Things will finally get back to normal.”

Burke’s hands are around her throat and he slams her up against the wall with a vicious noise.

And then he sees her—really sees her—and he drops his hands from her neck to grip her shoulders instead as he says, “Fucking Christ—Rook, I’m so sorry, fuck, I thought—”

Elliot coughs. Her lungs strain with each movement; every bone in her body feels bruised, and something slimy crawls up and down her spine when she thinks about the way Joseph leaned in close to her in the helicopter and said, no one is coming to save you.

“Burke,” she manages out, her voice hoarse, “they took Joey—they f-fucking—”

“This shit is all fucked,” Burke says. “I had no idea. We had—”

Everything in her is vibrating with a strange kind of hunger. It’s like she’s itching for something, but she can’t quite figure out what it is—movement, maybe, or a purpose, a task. It had been one thing to crawl her way out of the helicopter and start running blindly, but now she’s stationary, and in a trailer, and Joey is gone and she almost can’t think straight.

“Rookie,” Burke says firmly, but not unkindly, “with me.”

Her lashes flutter and she realizes she’s been zoning out. “Y—Yeah, I’m—here—I’m—”

And then she’s gasping, heaving for a lungful of air. All of a sudden, the ability to take a breath is gone. Her body’s normal functions have flown out the window. Her vision fuzzes around the edges and she thinks, fuck fuck fuck, don’t fucking do this, please, fuck, not right now, get it together.

No one is coming to save you.

Burke grabs her hand and plants it right on the side of his neck. His pulse beats—fast, but steady, in the complete opposite of the stuttering arrhythmia of her own heart. He’s breathing hard, but his eyes are clear and his movements assured.

“With me?” This time it’s a question, and she’s taking breaths at the same time he is so she nods.

“Yeah,” she replies, “yeah.”

“Good.” He pulls away from her and gestures for her to follow as he heads further in. “Check the room.”

She does. It’s empty. Eden’s Gate scripture decorates the walls, photos of the Seed family staring at her unflinchingly from behind glass panes of photo frames.

“Clear,” she reports, when she remembers to, and finds Burke standing in what appears to be the main living room of the trailer. The lines of his face are hard, unforgiving, and she can feel the urgency radiating off of him as he scrambles to pull together a plan.

“We’re gonna put these fucking psychos behind bars, Rook,” he says, pointing at a picture frame sporting a portrait taken of the Seeds. Elliot can’t stand to look at them. To think that she’d met John in a bar and—even considered—

“Every single one of them,” the Marshal reiterates as he rips the photo frame off of the wall and drops it on the floor, crushing the glass beneath his boot on his way over to the window. “We’re gonna—”

There are voices outside. Dread crawls up her spine; she can feel it latching on, sinking its teeth into her, gripping.

Burke shoves an automatic rifle in her hands.

“Eyes,” he barks out, back to business as he creeps toward the door of the trailer. “There’s a truck out there. You ready to fuckin’ rumble?”

She grips the cold metal. She wants to say, I don’t know if this is a good idea, because the edges of her are bleeding and blending in with everything else, and she’s having a hard time thinking about anything other than the texture of the carpet under her booted feet, but it helps to have something to hold onto.

Burke turns to her, crouched by the door, and his hand drops on her shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, “we're gonna bolt for that truck and hope it starts. Cover me."

"There's hardly any ammo in this thing," Elliot tells him, a note of panic rising in her voice as more people can be heard gathering outside, shouting to check the trailer. "What happens when—"

"I told you, kid, I read up on you. I know you were that small-town, All-American girl hitting soft lobs in the batting cage once," Burke tells her. "You'll figure out a use for the gun if you run out. And Rook?”

Elliot waits, and grips the cold metal slowly going lukewarm under her hands, flicking the safety off. “Yeah?”

The Marshal gives her shoulder a squeeze. “The second you think you can’t anymore,” he says, “you dig and keep going anyway. No matter what. Give ‘em your teeth if you have to. Got it?”

She nods without thinking about it, because the words feel good—if you can’t, keep going anyway. Dig dig dig. It reminds her of a poem she had read once.

What do we do with grief? Lug it; lug it.

“Good.” Burke drops his hand from her shoulder and gets ready to push the door open. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

There’s not a lot of detail to recall of the next few moments. She’s aware of voices, and gunfire, and the rhythmic, steady movements that she falls into. Aim, fire, drop, reload, aim, fire, rinse and repeat, until the torturous drag of time has her hauling herself into the truck while bullets whizz and clink off of the metal. The second she’s sitting, and not moving, and not breathing, her muscles start screaming; pain blooms behind her eyes.

Burke sends the tires shrieking as he speeds down the highway. He says something, but it’s hard to hear over the rush of wind from the open window, over the shouts of voices and sounds of gunfire echoing in the still, dark night. Elliot falls into a rhythm again—lean, aim, fire, pull back, reload, and again and again—while the Marshal drives over barricades and nearly throws her out of the truck.

“Nice fuckin’ shot, kid!” he says over the noise, just as the sound of an airplane rattling above them makes him lean over the steering wheel as he drives. “Fucking—you’re telling me they have God damn air support? Fuck!”

“Burke,” Elliot says, because they’re rapidly approaching a bridge with a truck ahead of them and the airplane hasn’t let up, “Burke—the bridge—”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ see it,” he grits out, fingers gripping the wheel. “Hold on, Rook.”

He punches it. He’s going to try and get around the truck and across the bridge. But it’s not enough; the truck ahead of them swerves, stops him from being able to speed past and keeping them trapped.

Gunfire from the sky rains down on them. The bridge goes up in flames; the truck is plunged straight into the water; and for a second, Elliot thinks, oh, thank fucking God, I’m done.

But she’s not, unfortunately. As she holds her breath around the water she’d swallowed upon the impact, she struggles out through the open window of the truck and fights her way to the surface. Everything inside of her wants to quit—everything says, we could just close our eyes, we could just be done, and then she remembers.

The second you think you can’t go anymore, you dig and keep going anyway. No matter what.

Her hands find soil. She hauls herself out of the water, coughing, lungs straining for air. Her vision blurs black and fuzzes, fizzing and popping in and out of existence as she considers the logistics of letting herself die. Just for a second. She can die for a second, right?

“No! Get off me! I am a United States Federal Marshal!”

It’s Burke. She can see the glimmer of flashlights on a distant bank, closer to the bridge. The dull, wet impact of something against skin quiets him; as Elliot lays back against the bank with her eyes flickering shut, she feels fingers grip the front of her shirt and haul her upwards.

“My children...”

The voice drones out of speakers—the sound speckles in and out, crackling in her head, distant but sickening.

“S—” Her voice slurs as she tries to say something; she’s being carried, and she doesn’t know to where, or by who. “W—Wait—”

“We must give thanks to God. The day I have prophesied to you has arrived.”

Elliot tries to force her eyes open. She can’t. She can’t, and she’s going to let Burke down, because she can’t dig anymore. How is she supposed to dig if her nails are scraping the bottom of the barrel?

“Everything I’ve told you has come true... The authorities who tried to take me from you are now in the loving embrace of my Family... save for one.”

She’s going to be sick. She’s going to be sick, and she wants to die, and she thinks that fucking psycho is talking about her.

“But the Wayward Soul will be found. They will be punished...”

She can see stairs. Concrete stairs, as the man carrying her hauls her down, down down down. Vaguely, hazily, she thinks, belly of the beast, now? and she wonders if she will ever feel normal again. Her vision fuzzes black, but she’s not dead and she’s not asleep; it’s unfortunate.

“And in the end, they will see our glorious purpose.”

Metal clinks against metal. Cold from the concrete floor seeps through her soaked clothes. Elliot lifts her head lazily, feeling the tug and strain of handcuffs around her wrists, and when she opens her eyes she can see she’s—somewhere. Somewhere, and handcuffed to a bed, while an older man stands at the radio. Joseph’s voice rattled on through it.

“I am your Father. You are my Children. And together, we will march too—”

The man turns the radio off. The air hangs hazy around him with smoke; something burns in the ashtray, and she thinks, fuck, I’d kill for a goddamn cigarette right about now.

“You know what that shit means?” the man asks, turning to look at her. She blinks at him blearily, and when she doesn’t answer, he plants himself in a chair in front of her.

Joey, and maybe Pratt—Burke, Whitehorse? They’re all gone, or dead, or something somewhere, and now it feels less like this was her chance to really start over and more like a set of trials and tribulations to make her suffer.

Her gaze flickers to meet the man’s, and she shakes her head uncertainly. The words won’t come out, even if she thinks there’s even a chance she’d have the strength.

“It means the roads have all been closed.”

No one is coming to save you.

“It means the phone lines have been cut.”

What do we do with grief?

“It means there’s no signals getting in or out of this valley.”

Give ‘em your teeth if you have to.

Elliot feels her stomach churn violently, nauseated. She wishes this man would have left her to die—or sleep, or whatever it was her body had been trying to get her to do on that riverbank.

“But mostly,” he finishes, leaning in to look at her with a hard, flinty gaze, “it means we’re all fucked.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A loud knock at the door echoed in the dim, stinging heat of the bath. For a moment, she felt a jolt of instinctive fear pound through her body—where was she? Was she drowning again? Had she not made it out of the river, had she—

Burke, and Joseph, and Joey getting dragged away, and Dutch, and—

But then Elliot remembered: she was at her mother’s house, and she’d run herself a bath in the big clawfoot off from the master with a vodka soda, and John Seed was here, too, and her lungs burned because she’d been sitting under the water. The sharp, splintering pain in her chest was grief, the memory of Joey's laugh and smile freshly remembered.

Breaking the surface and steadying the breath that wanted to gasp out of her through her nose, Elliot pushed any stray bubbles from her face and eyes and waited again to see if the sound was real.

Another knock came. “El?” John called from outside the bathroom, and his voice hinged on something else—something strange and foreign, and it gave her a tiny little thrill through the pit of her stomach to know she was making him feel like that. She blinked a few times, straightening up in the bathtub as the now-lukewarm water splashed around her. It had been a long time since she’d fallen asleep like that, without sporting a metric fuckton of exhaustion for days. It was probably the alcohol.

“I’m here,” she replied, feeling hollowed out and trying not to let it show in her voice, “come in. What is it?”

The door clicked open. John glanced around curiously at the bathroom—her mother had never let her use this bathroom for anything, not even to get ready for a high school dance or her graduation, and she thought maybe that made the room all the more special—all of her mother’s glittering compacts and colored perfume bottles, carefully-maintained hanging plants, the big French windows and gauzy white curtains; they all spoke to a woman who had created for herself a safe space.

She only thought, I hate that she never let me enjoy this safe space, too.

“We should be going back soon,” he said lightly, crossing the marbled floor to drag the stool from the vanity up to the side of the tub. With one arm leaned up against the porcelain, he reached the other hand out and tilted her chin; like this, covered only by the rose-scented bubble bath foaming up around the hollow of her chest, she was sure that she looked gnarly—mottled with bruises the size of Kian’s fingerprints, all over her neck and shoulders and chest, dousing her in a faded red-wine color that made her skin prickle in faint pain when John traced the slope of her collarbone.

Kian was dead, but he was still there—lingering just below her skin, a bone-deep ache and grief that she would never be rid of because no matter how dead he was, Joey was much more dead.

“—you’re thinking about,” John murmured, his eyes flickering over her face, and she leaned back against the head of the tub.

“Come again?” Elliot reached out of the tub, snagging the half-drained glass of vodka soda and downing the rest of it with a grimace that only partially cleared out the fog of grief.

“I said,” he continued lightly, fingers smoothing over bruisy skin below her collarbone, “tell me what you’re thinking about.”

I’m thinking about Joey, and your fucking cultists dragging her out of the helicopter and taking her away from me. There was no venom in the passing voice as she closed her eyes, damp hair sticking to the nape of her neck and her mother’s bath oils filling up her senses; John was touching the spot he’d once threatened to mark her with her sin. Wrath.

I think it’ll fit nicely right here, don’t you? Maybe just over your heart.

It wasn’t enough to wear it on her skin, anymore. It didn’t feel like enough, anyway. It was inside of her; a poison that she couldn’t sweat out, embedded in the sinew of her tissue now.

“I can hear those little gears turning, hellcat.”

“What do we have to do?” Elliot asked after a moment, opening her eyes, as John’s fingers traced the shape of a letter beneath her collarbone. W... R... A...

“Do?”

T...

“For the baptism,” she clarified, as the blunt drag of his nail finished the final touch of an H. “What do we have to do?”

John watched her for a moment, gaze flickering over the quickly-fading red marks he’d left on her sternum. She knew that look on his face—he was hungry for it, this thing he had been trying to get from her all along. Even after it all, he still itched to carve it out of her.

And maybe she did, too; maybe it would feel like a penance, a purging, a catharsis, a—

That’s how, she thought after a moment. That’s how they get people.

“We’ll cleanse you...” His voice trailed off and his eyes flickered back up to hers. “And then reveal your sin.”

“Cut it out of me,” Elliot supplied, exhaling a little out of her mouth.

John’s mouth twisted around a smile when her eyes traced the exposed Sloth scar she had memorized the feel of. “Real courage.”

She wondered, briefly, if it would feel the same as when she had done it before. The scar would certainly look different—no fine gossamer wisps, ghosting across her abdomen and hips and the inside of her thighs. Those were ghosts. This one—this scar John wanted to give her—would be a neon sign flashing over her head.

Do you think they’ll understand, when they read the reports of what you did to that man? Of the trail of bodies you’ve left behind yourself?

Could she have a life after this? Would it matter if she and John even left? Regardless of where they went—if they did—they would be a pair, matching in scars and matching in sin and matching matching matching until they were the same, just as much blood on her hands as there was on his.

“Then,” he continued, dipping his hand into the fragrant water before drawing it up across her bruise-mottled shoulder, “you’ll be clean.”

I liked it, she thought through the haze of alcohol and perfumed air, killing Kian. I liked it.

His fingers came up to her jaw, and he leaned against the edge of the porcelain tub and kissed her; long and luxurious, not punishing or bruising but drawn-out enough to elicit in her a pleasant, dull ache. 

“Okay,” Elliot murmured, speaking the words into his mouth, into his kiss.

John paused, but did not pull away. She could taste the dredges of what swallows he’d gotten of her drink in his breath. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” She reached up and dragged him the tiny distance back in for another kiss. “I want to.” She thought, if it’s what will convince Joseph, if it’s what’ll make it so I can leave, if it means you’ll go with me, if it means I won't have to be alone, but none of those words came. It had never been her strong suit, talking about her feelings.

John exhaled, like the acquiescence—the relenting—was enough to drive him to nirvana. She could feel his smile against her mouth.

“El,” he rumbled against her mouth, fingers skimming along the slope of her jaw, “I’m gonna give you everything you want.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Slow down.”

They’d only been driving through Fall’s End for about five minutes—not that it took too long; you could probably drive five minutes in just about any direction and hit the edge of town—when the blonde barked out the order. It was a strange juxtaposition, to have her biting out words like that when the smell of roses wafted off of her like a perfume, filling the cab from the oils in the bath.

Elliot’s voice was sharp when she spoke; her eyes were fixed on something out past her window, evening having sunk heavy and dark over the town of Fall’s End. It was a ghost town, now, but the urgency in her voice had him hitting the brake more fervently than he intended, and the truck lurched to stop.

“What is it?” John asked, and when he did Boomer growling low and angry behind him. He eyed the Heeler before he realized even the dog was looking elsewhere.

The blonde didn’t answer. She leaned forward instead, as though straining to see in the dark. Over her head, he could see the front of the Spread Eagle where they had been only a few days ago; now it was decorated with blossoms, and at its base sat two darkly-clothed figures. This far away, John couldn’t see if they were asleep or awake.

And then he did see. He saw the arterial spray against the dark wood, flickering under neon lights that buzzed in the stillness of the night; he saw the bouquet clutched between their hands; he saw the open, glassy eyes and slack jaws, and the glint of metal sitting on the ground beside each body.

Above them, written in dark, oxidized red-brown: WRATH, DO YOU WANT TO BLOOM IN ME?

“Sorry fucks,” Elliot said, her voice flinty and steeled as she leaned back into her seat. In the cab of the truck, the perfume of the bath oils radiated off of her in gentle waves, the heady, floral scent almost dizzying this concentrated and close. 

John let the truck roll forward a little, scanning warily; he didn’t see any dark shapes moving behind windows, or in the distant treeline, which was what actually worried him—the presence of more, live enemies, not the suicide love-birds.

But if it bothered Elliot, if it made her feel any type of way to see these dead bodies cradling life in one last embrace, he couldn’t see it on her face. He pressed on the accelerator and glanced at her expression through the corner of his eyes; there was a steeliness there. Not empty, not as though she had stopped processing, but as though she had, and it didn’t mean anything to her.

Good, he thought. That’s how it needs to be.

The rest of the drive back was quiet. There were an unsettling amount of coupled-bodies on the drive home—propped against trees and patches of highway railings or the occasional clifface, hands interlocked as they cradled blossoms, some more intricately decorated than others. But the basis of it was always the same: a couple, slumped and glassy-eyed. Some had the words written around them, some did not. It didn’t seem to hold any pattern that he could tell.

Elliot closed her eyes and drifted in and out of sleep until they got back to the compound, the flickering fluorescents stirring her awake. As they were pulling in, Jacob was getting a truck ready to go; it was late into the evening now, almost midnight, and a sting of apprehension skittered up John’s spine at the sight of his eldest brother loading a rifle into a truck.

As soon as she had opened the door, letting Boomer out first and then following suit, Elliot looked at Jacob and said, “Where are you going?”

“Not your fuckin’ business,” Jacob replied serenely.

“Everything,” Elliot said flatly, “is my business.”

“It’s cute that you care.” Jacob flashed her a half-cocked smile. “But don’t worry, deputy, I’m a big boy.”

John slid out from the driver’s seat, watching the exchange with some apprehension. But it seemed to fizzle and die out right then and there, like Jacob and Elliot had come to some silent truce about the matter without his intervention; Elliot rolled her eyes and scoffed under her breath, heading for the bunkhouse without waiting for John.

Which was fine, because John lingered. He swung the truck keys around his finger and said, “So where are you going?”

Jacob glanced back at him over his shoulder. The redhead regarded John for a moment before he looked to make sure Elliot had closed the door behind her and said, “Couple of ours say they spotted Burke wandering around down by the Henbane.”

Oh, John thought, the words both giving him a jolt of excitement and a little of dread. Burke being missing was a problem, that was to be sure—but if they could find him? Get rid of him without ever bringing him back into contact with Elliot? The less time for conspirators to put silly ideas in her head about getting out and moving on from Hope County, the easier it was going to be to convince her of what a bad idea that was in the end.

“You’re going to go get him?” John prompted.

“Yep,” Jacob drawled, “dead or alive.”

“Preferably dead.”

The corners of Jacob’s mouth ticked upward, and he flashed his teeth. “That a request, little brother?”

Stifling his own smile, John replied lightly, “I just think it’ll solve a lot of problems if the Marshal becomes permanently lost. And if it makes my job a little easier in the process, then—”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jacob interrupted, waving his hand. I’ll see what I can do was about as good as an anything you want if it was coming from Jacob, John knew; so when he said that, and clapped John on the shoulder as he passed, it felt like an assurance more than a cautionary ‘maybe’.

John nodded, and then said, “We saw the Family.”

His eldest brother paused in his movements, and then hauled himself into the truck, looking at John expectantly.

“They’re killing themselves,” he elaborated. “At least the ones we saw. You’ll probably…”

John’s voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat and said, “It’ll be hard to miss them.”

Jacob gave one short, brief nod, slamming the door of the truck and starting it with a rattling rumble. “Sorry fucks,” he said, his words unintentionally mirroring Elliot’s words, and it was all John could do not to tell him he sounded exactly like her.

John headed for the chapel, moving with a new and reinvigorated purpose. For once—finally—things were beginning to fall into place. With Burke out of the picture, the last of the resistance having evacuated Hope County, and Elliot’s agreement to the baptism, he thought this could only indicate smooth sailing from here on out.

Well, mostly smooth. There was still the matter of their marriage, which Elliot didn’t know about—and it was a big deal, probably, for her to know that her last name was changed. As far as the law would be concerned, however, everything would check out and be perfectly binding, and when he told her she would understand that he had done it for them, that he had done it because they needed that extra measure of protection in the instance that—

Don’t, he thought to himself, pushing the door open. We are not considering the idea that the End isn’t coming.

“John,” Joseph greeted him, sounding surprised. It looked like he had just been walking towards the doors himself to leave. His brother's gaze flickered over him inquisitively. “It’s late.”

“Elliot wants to do the baptism,” he said, trying to quell his delight at the gentle lifting of Joseph’s brows at the news. “I’ll do it as soon as you want, Joseph.”

The man paused. He seemed to roll the announcement around in his head for a while, the white leather-bound bible tucked under his arm as his eyes flickered absently over the wooden flooring.

“She’s agreed to it,” John tried again. “To the—”

“Yes,” Joseph replied, “I understand.”

Another moment of silence stretched. John kept waiting for it—the happiness, the pride that Joseph should feel at him having accomplished this last great feat. Anything, John thought, I’d take anything, if you just gave me something to work with.

“Tomorrow,” he said finally, and reached out, planting a hand on John’s shoulder. He squeezed, and a bit of relief flooded John’s system. “You baptize our deputy tomorrow—”

My deputy.

“—and then we will prepare to retreat for the End,” he finished. “Yes?”

John nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Good.” Joseph regarded him for a moment, and then, at last, a little smile quirked the edges of his lips. “You’ve done well, John.”

He felt his shoulders sag a little in relief. “Thank you,” he said, “Joseph, I—”

“And I will forgive you the transgression of your lust,” Joseph continued mildly, “as you will make sure that Elliot joins us completely and wholly. Isn’t that right?”

The dread returned. Just a little; it was how Joseph operated the most effectively. Tiny, light dosings of dread, just to remind you who was in control, who it was that ran things around here. He cleared his throat.

“I’ve already,” John began, “confessed to those which—”

Joseph’s hand came to the back of his neck. “You have been fixated on our deputy since the moment she started taking things from us. You can re-commit an offense,” he said, his words echoing Jacob’s, and for a moment John felt a spike of anger—that they had been talking about him when he wasn’t around. “You’re not so wrathful as to go to such lengths to bring her to heel for that alone. And even if you were,” Joseph added, “it wouldn’t matter, as you had already given in to your sin.”

“She’s my wife,” John insisted, and his words were coming out angrier than he wanted; as always, Joseph could slide right under his skin like it was nothing, like it was second nature to him. 

“A fact she remains, as of yet, unaware of. Regardless, you lusted after her far before that, and acted on it before then, as well. I’ve let it go because of our unusual circumstances, but you understand,” his brother replied, his words a blunt-force-trauma slap to John’s exhausted brain. A moment of silence stretched between them as John worked the words around in his mouth—I actually don’t understand, nothing about that changed how I treated her in my care, I did everything you asked of me and I shouldn’t have to pay—but Joseph said, “At any rate, all will be forgiven once we are awaiting the End." And then, pointedly, "All of us.”

John swallowed. He opened his mouth to say something, any of the thoughts running around in his brain, but Joseph dropped his hand and brushed past him, humming lightly under his breath.

“Goodnight, John.”

He stood there for a little while longer after Joseph had left, turning the words around in his brain. Once again, he felt very far away from Joseph; but all this time, he had been working hard to do exactly what his brother had asked of him. Elliot might have already been converted to their cause if he’d been allowed to break her in the way he’d wanted to before. But it was Joseph who had insisted on a more merciful route, Joseph who had reiterated step by step that to do so by mercy was the way it needed to be done for the deputy.

And now, it was Joseph criticizing the steps he’d taken, in adverse conditions, to give him what he wanted.

John pushed the troubling thoughts out of his brain. Another place, another time, he might wallow on them a little more—perhaps a time when he could drink his way through them, come back to reconciliation about the fear that Joseph somehow managed to strike in him with ease, deal with it then.

When he finally walked himself to the bunkhouse, he found Elliot sitting with Faith outside the door, smoking a cigarette while they exchanged quiet words. Faith flashed a radiant smile at John as he approached, her eyes glimmering playfully.

“Ladies,” John greeted, trying to shake his last conversation with Joseph. “Nice evening for an outside chat?”

“Fucking cold,” Elliot replied, taking a drag of her cigarette and blowing the smoke out and away from Faith.

“I was just telling El how happy I am that she’s here,” Faith told him, coming to a stand. Her very casual and nonchalant use of the nickname El was enough to spike a little suspicion in John, but when she spoke, Elliot’s eyes flickered like she was trying not to smile, like the words meant something to her and she was trying to remain stoic.

Elliot said, not remarking on the nickname and tapping the ash from the end of her cigarette, “That’s two out of four siblings that like me. Think I can go for a full house?”

Three, John thought absently, but he didn’t say; the words would have shredded his mouth on the way out.

“Well,” his sister continued lightly, “I’m exhausted. Goodnight, you two.”

“Night,” John replied, keeping his voice idle as she left. He extended a hand down to Elliot, and she took it, hauling herself to her feet; he snagged the cigarette out of her hand and said, “Speaking of sleep, how about we don’t cram it on that twin bunk tonight?”

Elliot watched him smoke her cigarette down, her gaze flickering back up to his. “It’s cute how you think I’m just automatically going to let you sleep with me all the time.”

“It’s cute how you act like you don’t like it,” he replied, pitching his voice low, “especially when we aren’t sleeping in bed.”

She took her cigarette back, finishing it and dropping it to the ground to stamp it out with her shoe. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind not having you breathing down my neck all night.”

“Oh? You suppose?”

“I’m losing the motivation to continue this conversation,” Elliot cautioned in a murmur, even as he leaned in and kissed her, his hand instinctively coming up to the back of her neck to keep her there. She didn’t pull away, or even try to; instead, after he’d kissed her breathless, she continued, “Are you going to take me or what, Slick?”

He laughed, the sound billowing out of his mouth at her little country-drawl come peeking through.

You will baptize our deputy tomorrow.

His fingers curling into the semi-dry hair at the nape of her neck, and he kissed her again—harder, now, open-mouthed and hungry, until he could feel her fingers knotting into the front of his shirt.

“Tomorrow,” he said into the kiss, “tomorrow we’ll do it. A new cleansing, revealing your sin.”

“Fast,” she murmured.

“So Joseph has decreed.”

Elliot pulled back to look at him; he wanted to lean in, chase her mouth with another kiss, but she said, “Do you always do what your brother says? I thought pre-marital fucking was a big no.”

The words twisted hot and traitorous in his stomach. He wanted to say, technically, we’ve only done that once, but he knew better. After her little display back at her mother’s house, he knew better.

He swallowed back the venom and said, carefully articulating his words, “If we could refrain from ruining a perfectly good moment—”

“By talking,” Elliot deadpanned.

“By criticizing,” he clarified, “that would be wonderful.”

She regarded him amusedly, one brow arching upward loftily. She was clearly thinking about something, working it around in her brain in a place that he couldn’t reach—still, parts of her remained locked away from him, parts of her that he desperately wanted to get his hands on and hadn’t yet.

“Well,” she relented at last, “I’d hate to ruin a moment. Show me where this luxurious bed is, huh?”

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Elliot could tell that her acquiescence unsettled John. She could tell that he had been expecting more of a fight out of her; she was so tired of fighting, though. She was so tired, and she was so worn out, and sometimes she could feel her brain switching off in the middle of something happening, like a greater cosmic power was consistently turning her Do Not Disturb sign on.

She’d feel better in the morning, maybe. It helped that she hadn’t looked at the photos littering her mother’s house for too long, and that she’d drank through most of her time there to keep the memories at bay. Elliot didn’t want to linger on thoughts of running barefoot through the house, shrieking with laughter as her mother called out for her to slow down; she didn’t want to think about how many times she and Joey had curled up on the same couch that John Seed had kissed her on, eating lemon bars and flipping through teen magazines while her mother drank and hummed in the kitchen.

There were good memories there. There were memories of a time when Elliot felt like the entire world was within her reach—she could go anywhere, be anything, become anyone she wanted back then.

Things had changed.

She had changed. And even though John’s promise wavered, even though it still lingered in her chest uncertainly like a beast of its own, she thought maybe he meant it. She had seen the tension between John and Joseph as of late. Something about their interactions was waning thin, worried and worn between them, and that meant that when John said he wanted those things with her—a home, a life—that maybe she could trust him.

Isn’t that a pretty thought? A wicked part of her intoned, vicious. The man who’s lied and lied and lied to you, being truthful for the first time.

But she was tired, and she was different, and being different took work and energy and she didn’t want to think about that. What else could she think, anyway? She could operate off of nothing else.

Admittedly, not trying to fit both of their bodies on a twin bed was doing wonders for her mood. John had led her to another small building within the compound; it was laid out much like the other bunkhouse had been, with a bathroom and a small table, but the bed was queen-sized and pushed up against the far wall, tucked into a corner. With Boomer having taken off with his nose to the ground—likely chasing a scent—Elliot had stripped out of her jeans and crawled into the bed with a laborious sigh that only partially revealed the relief she felt.

“I have never,” John said amusedly as she pulled the blankets up, “seen you more relaxed.”

“You did interfere with my life at an inopportune time. My bed is king-sized at home, you know; nothing like sleeping diagonally on a giant bed.”

He laughed; as he shed his own clothes—his belt, jeans, shirt—he watched her like he was trying to figure out why it was she had become so agreeable and so quickly, why she hadn’t picked another fight with him.

Blissfully, he didn’t ask. John crawled into the bed next to her, and already he was reaching to wind his arm around her waist; when he pulled her close to him, she felt that pleasant little coil of dopamine hit her brain, and she thought, what a time, that John’s hands on me make it feel like I’m not drifting away.

She thought to say it, for just a moment; she thought maybe she could give John that, because she’d been taking and taking and taking and she didn’t think she was giving him anything. 

The words didn’t come so easily to her, so instead of saying them, Elliot reached up and dragged him down to kiss him. I’m gonna give you everything you want, he’d said, and just remembering those words made her feel too-warm. She’d never, ever had anyone devoted to her—not like this, not in the way that John was, dragging his mouth reverently down her neck and sliding his hand along the back of her thigh.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” John said, murmuring the words into the skin of her neck. His mouth skimmed lower, dragging down her sternum; his hands pushed up the hem of her tank top and she felt the slick, hot flicker of his tongue against the part of her that she knew was scarred, ghosting and intent.

“Can’t,” she managed out, trying to steady her breathing, “when you’re—”

“You can.” He nudged her legs apart, glancing up at her inquisitively, the blankets dragging down with him. “Tell me.” He kissed the inside of her thigh, open-mouthed, and she felt her breath shallow a little.

“I’m thinking about—what you said, back at the house,” she managed out, as John’s breath fanned across her skin.

John’s eyes fixed on hers again. His fingers skimmed beneath the hem of her underwear; he was waiting for her to tell him to stop. When she didn’t, he tugged the fabric down, sliding it completely out of the way and discarding it somewhere on the floor.

The apprehension curled up, high and hot, in her throat. Still, forced herself to relax, to think about John’s hands gripping her hips and his eyes and his mouth and—

“When you said,” Elliot continued, “you’re going to give me everything I want, and that you wanted—”

He pressed his mouth to her; she felt the sound he made into the gesture, her vibrating straight through her and short-circuiting her brain. Instinctively, her fingers went to his hair and knotted. She didn’t know if she was trying to ground herself again or if she was trying to keep John there, but the intention didn’t matter—as soon as she pulled, even a little, she felt John’s tongue slide sly and wicked against her and she moaned without thinking about it, the sound as involuntary as breathing.

It felt too raw, too vulnerable, and she tried to think is this too much? Am I feeling too much right now?, but the pervasive thought in her brain was: yes yes yes, this is what we need, this is what we want. To be loved, to be touched, to be worshipped.

“Can't get enough of you.” John's voice was rich and dark against her skin. “So sweet for me, hellcat.”

“John, we—you don’t—” Elliot started breathlessly, but the words were strangled in her throat by a half-sighed whimper when John’s mouth returned to where he wanted her the most and he groaned, like he was starved for her, like he could barely stand the thought of not having his mouth on her right that instant.

“Fuck, I wanted this so bad,” he murmured huskily, reverent as he planted kisses along the slope of her hip. “Wanted those sounds you make, and the way you’re looking at me—knew you’d make the prettiest fucking noises when I got my mouth on you—”

Another desperate sound came out of her, just loud enough that John's response was to drag his teeth along the dip and curve of her hip bone. He sighed dreamily and leaned in to flatten his tongue against the neediest part of her; the gesture served only to make Elliot moan and squirm, and her hips instinctively arched upward to try and garner some friction—any friction—but John's hands held her down against the bed.

“Love when you’re desperate for me,” he rumbled against her, breathing the words against her skin and making her breath stutter out of her in an uneven exhale. He pressed his mouth back down, tongue flicking and dragging wet, hot pleasure against her, his gaze half-lidded and not once straying from Elliot’s. 

It was almost too much, the whole lot of it; John, saying filthy things against her while he ate her out, his eyes hungry and his mouth hungrier and the way that he dug his fingers into her hips and—

“F-Fucking—tease,” she managed out, but he shook his head, rumbling against her and drawing another spiral of heat straight into her stomach, sharp and unforgiving.

“Don’t you like it when I take my time with you? You certainly seem like you’re enjoying yourself.” He hooked his arms underneath her legs and tugged her down against him. She squirmed, her lashes fluttering when he let his breath fan across her. “Thinking about how I promised you whatever you wanted. Are you going to tell me, then? What you want?”

Elliot could tell that he loved saying that, I’ll give you whatever you want, because he knew what it did to her; that it thrilled her, this shred of power that he gave her, offered to her. John dragged his tongue against her, his gaze heated and nearly blown-black with want, and stayed exactly there between her legs.

“John,” Elliot moaned, “I—want you to fuck me—” And then, in an effort to feel a little like she was in control: “Please.”

The word had its desired effect; she could feel the tension radiating off of him, straining against his carefully-manicured veneer of being in charge. And then John groaned at her words, his own eyes fluttering shut for a moment, as though her words were enough to make him need a moment before he opened them again. He pulled back from her, sitting up so that he could press his fingers into her, and fuck if it didn’t make all the more delicious to have John watching her while he did.

He said, his voice hoarse with want, “El, you’re so fucking—God, you’re so fucking gorgeous like this—asking so nicely for me—”

“Fuck me,” Elliot insisted, her voice verging dangerously close to a wail as he changed the pace of his fingers very little. She thought if John kept looking at her like that, if he kept saying those things, she might finish just like this—and she didn’t want to. “Stop teasing me and f—fuck me like I know you want to—like we both want—”

It was enough. Or maybe it was the thing John had been waiting to hear from her, because it prompted him to shed what little clothing remained between them and sidle back between her legs. Reaching down to cradle her face with his hand as he kissed her, she could taste herself on his mouth; she could feel the heady, intoxicating drag of him against her and God he was taking his fucking time. 

“Want this to last,” he moaned, burying his face into her neck, “fuck, so good for me, baby, so wet already and I just can’t fucking… Can’t fucking get my fill of you.”

Elliot keened her agreement breathlessly. Yes, she wanted to say, yes, I’m so good for you, now please hurry up and fuck me, the thought driving a wedge of heat straight down her spine. As soon as John slid inside of her, he was panting into her skin, biting out swears as he tried to keep himself from snapping into her.

“J-John,” she whimpered. Her brain felt muggy, hazy with want; like she wasn’t going to be able to think about anything else except for him, and that was exactly what she wanted. Not to think. “So—feels so good—”

“Yeah,” he gritted out, moving slowly, too slowly, “fuck yeah, this is what you needed, huh? Needed me to fuck you like this—nice and slow, make you feel me every—single—time—I—”

It felt good to give him this. She hadn’t lied, when she’d said that before—that she liked giving him what he wanted, that it made her feel in-control and desired and loved and maybe that was the worst part of it all, that her brain might have been making those things up as a way to justify this. But it didn’t matter in that moment; all she could think about was the feeling of him rocking into her, hips slotted perfectly against hers and his mouth on her neck and the faded scent of his cologne mixing with the floral scent of her own remaining perfume.

Elliot sighed, “Yes, John,” in agreement, and pulled him up for a kiss; his movements hitched just a little, the delicious drag of the uneven pacing almost sending her right over the edge. So close so close, her body said, so she knotted her fingers into his hair tight and said it again; “Yes, yes, yes,” against his mouth, moaning it, until John was grinding out swear between his teeth.

“Not yet,” the brunette moaned, almost frantic with desire. “I want you to come, I want to feel you get fucking wet for me, baby—”

She knew that she could make him beg, that she could make him come undone if she really wanted to. But for this moment, Elliot thought she liked this; she liked letting him take control, liked squirming and shifting underneath him until each cant of his hips against hers had sparks of pleasure flickering behind her eyes.

John’s mouth went to her neck. His teeth dragged, and then he bit down harder than he had before; the pain bloomed wet and hot, and she moaned, her lashes fluttering as it sent her sprinting sprinting sprinting right over that edge.

“Yes,” he ground out, “yes, fuck yes, so fucking good for me, El, s-so—good.”

Elliot kissed him hard when he came, his fingers reigniting old bruises on her hips and her own high still cruising, careening prettily down; the surrender was almost better, the act of giving in and giving John what he wanted nearly as intoxicating as the idea that he was hers.

Mine, she thought dreamily as he dragged his tongue over the bite mark on her neck, the word one that wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to her but which hadn’t occurred to her in this context before. For that suspended moment in time, nothing else could matter to her; there was no space in her brain to worry about anything except the weight of his body against hers and the wicked, delicious aftershocks radiating throughout her body.

All she could think about was how nice it felt to not be so alone.

It feels good for him to be mine.

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When he awoke the next morning, there were three soft knocks at the door. John blinked, forcing himself to work through the tired haze of his mind, sitting up and reluctantly leaving the warmth of the bed and—

And of Elliot, curled up against him, stirring from her sleep.

“John?” It was Faith, mild-tempered and shy; like she knew exactly what she was going to find if she opened the door and she was trying not to let him know. It wasn’t that it bothered her; it was that Faith was exceptionally good at keeping herself in-check, so any time her tone deviated from serene was a red flag.

“I’m awake,” he called back, and even he could hear how hoarse his voice was coming out of him, rough with sleep.

There was a pause, and then Faith said sweetly, “Joseph says we need to begin soon.”

The blonde beside him rolled onto her other side, hauling the blankets up to her chin. “Fuck off.”

“We’ll be ready in thirty,” John called back.

“He said that he wants me to get Elliot ready,” she continued, and there it was; that sly little curl in her voice, the one that reminded him exactly of why it was Joseph kept her around. 

John passed a hand over his face tiredly, rubbing his eyes for a moment before he cleared his throat and climbed out of bed. “Sure, alright, Faith, just—give me a minute—”

“Take your time.”

The implication hung there—that she would politely wait until he was done getting dressed, but that she wouldn’t be leaving to wait, so that anything he wanted to say to Elliot was going to have to be saved for later. Haphazardly pulling some clean clothes out of the dresser and onto his body, he glanced back over his shoulder to see Elliot sitting up in bed; she cradled the blanket against her chest and blinked tiredly at him.

“It’s time,” John said. “For the—”

“Yeah, I heard.” Elliot carded her fingers through her hair and slid out from under the blankets. Like this—in various arrays of undress—John could see the purpled bruising along her sternum and neck and shoulder, a few of them on her legs, beginning to fade into a wine color and even lighter still around the edges.

I’ll have to be careful when I’m writing her sin, he thought absently as he buttoned his shirt. As Elliot muddled her way through pulling on last night’s clothes, he closed the distance between them and reached for her; she let him, though maybe only because she was still half-asleep, with the daylight still fresh and new and the outside mostly still dark.

John cradled her face and leaned down to kiss her. “You and me,” he said against her mouth, “right, hellcat?”

It’s not a lie, he reasoned when she kissed him back. It’s not a lie to say that.

“You and me,” Elliot agreed. Her voice sounded thick, like he’d said the exact thing she wanted to hear and it had caught her off guard, and he felt a little thrill of victory in his chest.

Once she was mostly-dressed, he made his way to the door and nudged it open. True to her word, Faith had waited patiently; a swath of dark fabric was draped over her arm, silken, and as she stepped past John she said, “Okay, John, girls only now.”

Obediently, he stepped out of the building, turning and looking at Elliot over his shoulder. The eye contact only lasted for a minute before Faith beamed at him and shut the door. Inside, he could hear Faith saying something to Elliot; making out the words, however, was near impossible.

“Right,” he said under his breath. “This is fine. Everything’s fine.”

It was the first time he’d said it to himself, in a long time, and it felt true.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“It’s so fucking cold,” Elliot said, shivering. The silk slip of a dress that Faith had told her she needed to wear for the “baptism” barely did anything against the early-morning chill. Dawn had nearly crept all the way over the distant mountains, and as they picked their way down to the water, she wished they’d just let her wear the clothes that she had brought. Naturally, Eden’s Gate—and Joseph, by proxy—were completely incapable of doing anything reasonably.

“I know,” Faith replied sympathetically, their fingers intertwined as they picked their way down the path. “But at least it’s only for a little while. In and out of the water, and then you can change again.” And then, as though it were meant to comfort her, she added, “Blue’s your color.”

Elliot grimaced. Blue was John’s color. “Yeah,” she agreed dryly, “it matches well with my bruises, don’t you think?”

The woman laughed, giving her hand a little squeeze, and for a brief second in time Elliot felt a twinge of regret. There wasn’t too much time to think about it; by the time she was opening her mouth to apologize—an action which Faith seemed to elicit in her quite easily, when overall apologizing was not something that came so naturally to her—they had broken the treeline and all thoughts went sweeping out of her brain.

Joseph stood at the edge of the shore, but she barely thought of him; she barely thought of anything except for John, standing nearly waist-deep in the water, the Book of Joseph held open in one hand and his eyes fixed on her. It sent a little flurry of aches through her, reminding her that once, what felt like a thousand years ago, she had wanted to kill him. Spit in his face. Leave her mark on him and throw his entire fucking family behind bars.

But maybe Joseph had been right, when he asked if she really thought she was going to be accepted by the people she had done all of this to protect.

John's gaze swept over her as they came near; a grin split his face, and with his empty hand he reached for her. She was vaguely aware of Joseph saying something, light and tranquil, but the words didn't register in her brain. She was only barely aware of Faith letting go of her. With that same hand, she took John’s outstretched one, and he tugged lightly, guiding her into the chilly Autumnal waters; where it barely reached John’s waist, the water just crested above her belly button, and she felt the goosebumps spreading.

John cleared his throat. His eyes swept over the page in the book, before he closed it and held it out for Joseph. When the man took it, standing just at the edge of the water, he turned back to Elliot and murmured, low and barely above the sound of the water lapping around them, “You and me?”

Her stomach twisted and lurched uncomfortably, but she nodded. She’d had barely an opportunity to reconcile this moment with herself. She thought, maybe, if she made it a rebirth for herself—if she let Joseph think that it was for him, but in her mind and in the marrow of her bones it was for her, that would be what mattered. But it was hard to think that way when John started reciting the words from the book, words that sparked in her memories of the last time this had been happening.

Hands, gripping her shirt, plunging her under the water over and over and over again. The “scripture” bleeding into her head, into her heart, muffled occasionally by the water. John’s voice, slick with venom, when he said, “This one’s not clean.”

When John finished speaking, he reached up; still stuck in the waking nightmare-memory, Elliot’s hand reached up to grip his arm where the sleeve had been rolled up. 

John, plunging her under the water. Holding her. Dark dark dark, and her voice rolling the word weak around as she fought for air and struggled to break the surface—

But now, his hands cradled against the pillar of her neck; now, he looked at her reverently, like she was something to be worshipped.

“Here,” the brunette said, his voice low and soft, and somewhere in the back of her mind his words overlapped with a memory that at once felt both too sharp and too foggy to recall; “with me.”

“Okay,” she whispered. He smoothed his hand along her back, between her shoulder blades, and then pulled her under.

It took every ounce of her self-control not to fight it. Every fucking ounce of it, and she still caught herself tensing like she was ready to. John kept her there, one hand between her shoulders and one hand on her sternum, the light pressure digging a little into the remaining bruises.

And he kept her there. And kept her there. And—

Above the water, somewhere out there, she heard the sound of John saying something; more voices echoed back, more than just Joseph and Faith. He pulled her up out of the water abruptly; the sudden movement had her gasping for air, her nails digging into his forearm, and she thought, he was going to let me, he was going to let me fucking drown, I—

“I’ve got you,” John said, steadying her; certainly he could feel the rapid pulse of her heart. There was something strange about his tone—it was hard, tense and tight, and she saw it in his face, too.

Shivering ferociously, Elliot kept her hand gripping his arm. She started, “John, why did you—”

“Rookie?”

The familiar voice had her head jerking back to the shoreline. There were more people there, now. There was Joseph with Faith beside him, and just at the edge of the water and staring at her, was Cameron Burke.

Behind him, Jacob flashed his teeth in a wolfish grin.

“See?” Jacob said, slapping his hand onto Burke's back like an old friend playing too rough. “Told you she was just fine.”

The Marshal’s hands and feet were unbound, but he swayed on his feet, and Elliot saw that his pupils were blown wide and dark—he reeked of a sickly-sweet floral scent that felt familiar, tingled somewhere in the back of her mind—

She couldn’t think. She couldn’t think about any of that; her brain felt like its competency had been completely reduced, that the strain of focusing on more than one thing at a time had become too much. And here, now, Burke was staring at her, and when he said it again—when he said, “Rook, is that you?”—his voice broke, hoarse and wretched.

“B—” Elliot’s throat closed tight. The air had been sucked out of her lungs; she felt the ache in her chest bloom fresh and hot and new, and it was grief—grief and shame, reopening old wounds that she had hoped would be long-since healed over.

With me? Burke’s pulse, steadfast and firm, under her fingertips. 

The man’s expression crumpled. She let go of John’s arm and went to wade through the water; his hand caught her elbow and held her fast.

When she looked back at him, his expression was unreadable. He said, “El,” but that was all he said, and she heard the strain of something close to desperation in his voice. Don’t, it said, without saying it at all. Don’t do this.

With her teeth chattering and a violent spike of anger racing through her, Elliot jerked her arm out of his grip and stumbled her way up onto the bank; Burke reached for her almost immediately, catching her arms and pulling her up out of the frigid water and to him. His body felt feverishly hot, even though the cotton of his shirt, his vest long-since discarded.

You dig and keep going anyway. No matter what.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he managed out as he gripped her, and she felt his eyes sweeping over the exposed bruising, like war paint on her skin.

“Burke,” Elliot said, her voice breaking, and oh, she thought, oh, there it is; the release, the catharsis, because she was crying at the overwhelming sense of shame and relief in equal amounts at the sight of the man who had walked her through her first real firefight; big, gasping, grieving sobs, hiccuping in her chest violently because she kept thinking about Burke—she kept thinking about him grabbing her hand and saying, we’re getting out of here, and how he was here now. Now that she was—

This.

“God, what the fuck did they do to you?” Burke asked, his voice barely breaking the sound-barrier of a whisper. He pulled her forward, closer, protectively. “I’m so—I’m so fuckin’ sorry, I—”

“Found him wandering out by the old prison,” Jacob explained, presumably to the others and not to her, “having a nice little trip. Weren’t you, Burke?”

The shame washed up in her again, a nauseating cocktail that reminded her of all the things she had done. All of the awful things she had done, while Burke was out there, alone, wandering and confused and tripping on Bliss overloads and now he was here. Now he was here, and she kept thinking, what have I done?

“Hey,” Burke said against the top of her hair as she clutched at him, “I got you, Rook, I’m sorry, I’m here.”

I'm sorry, she wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm ruined now.

“Well,” Joseph said, his voice tightly-controlled and forcibly serene, “I suppose we should give the deputy and her Marshal a moment to catch up, shouldn’t we?”

[scarletrebel]

If you write more of Grier + Asher I'll gasp and cry happy tears ( also what's this idea about Toland Asher + Grier I'm so very interested )

i really want to buddy!! got lots of stuff i want to write aha

and as for asher and toland i....... oh man. okay, so 

so i kind of came up with a...... history (kind of) repeating itself scenario? 

when i wrote that tiny bit of explanation that asher gives grier in help me polarize i just. wasnt happy with it? it wasnt that i wanted to create drama or purposefully have asher go through the same thing as grier did, i just decided that it would be interesting to give them a sure fire reason to connect, for grier to see something very similar in asher to himself. i wanted the experience asher has with toland to be similar but not exactly the same, i guess? 

i just thought it would bring them closer and give grier a strong indication that no, toland was actually terrible and that he did the right thing. because i feel like as obvious as it was and as brave as grier is for taking that step away from being taken king and realising that toland is terrible, sometimes it still takes someone who went through it as well for you to be safe and secure in the decision that you made, if that makes sense? 

and idk if anyone picked up on it, but grier is coming to asher after being told by avia about the dark future. and grier thinks very similarly to avia in that he just perceives it as ‘that was almost me.’ and yeah avia talks to him and gives him comfort but he still goes to asher in the same (less romantically, ofc) way that avia would probably break down to rook about it afterwards. 

but, anyway, the basic idea is:

asher studied with toland. toland being drawn to the darkness and knowing that the vex were closely tied to it, he found asher and convinced him to work with him. ahser ended up helping toland with some pretty intense theories and hypothesis under the impression that it was in aid of the tower and in defeating the vex, but finds out too late that he was being used to help toland justify his own perceptions of the darkness 

asher was just...... too young, too brash and insistent and alone, to realise. toland told him he was clever and smart and a credit to the warlocks and everything else. asher thought himself pragmatic enough not to care about stupid compliments but...... toland was asking him to try, just to try and capture some darkness from a hive knights sword. surely, only he could do it. they could study it together, compare it to radiolaria and finally crack the darkness's corruption, to find how it happens before anyone else does. so he does it, and doesnt even think to ask where the sample dissapears to a few days later. 

eventually he needs help. toland starts to ask for a lot, and he cant keep up. so he groups up with a couple of hunters and they help him out and they just. stick around. and asher cant get rid of them and light above they start to grow on him. and. they catch onto tolands fuckery a lot quicker than he does, and they manage to pull asher away before the worst happens, and when toland turns into a heretic and talks of exile happen, ashers hunters are there to tell him that there was nothing he could have done. 

and. i mean. in a sense, in the smallest way, history repeats itself. 

think of it kind of like harry potter and the half blood prince. one of the main scenes in that film is harry having to get a memory from a professor who essentially told voldemort how to make himself immortal. but that professor has cast away and warped that memory because of his guilt. asher has essentially done the same, because he doesnt want to face the notion that he contributed to a whole fireteam dying because he didnt warn them about his lies or his manipulation, because he wanted nothing to do with toland after his exile, and theres a part of him that thinks maybe, just maybe he could have prevented him from becoming so obsessed.

but. tolands dead, so, he’s fine. 

(theres just. this scene in my head of asher coming face to face with a dead man and light above what can he do?? he’s a dead man walking, one arm, no weapons, no ghost. 

but griers hurt and avia is nowhere to be seen, none of kindred light are anywhere and he cant contact them theres nothing he can do and toland just 

smiles that sickeningly sweet smile and its only now that asher can see the malice behind it, as he pushes a kneeling grier over with his foot and says, ‘well, i guess history has a habit of repeating itself’ - crushes griers scrambling ghost as it tries to heal him, ‘but this time im taking the little wretch with me.’)

and i mean, if u disagree pin or anything like that pls let me know aha idk it was just a wayward thought and im really enjoying exploring manipulative characters at the moment and toland is a nice semi-blank canvas to go with