#which btw i swear there is...actual fun in this arc somewhere lmfao

[woodlandscab1n]

Guys... guys lets go back in time. Guys guys guys please.e..

I can't wait 'till I can get all the other RE games that I haven't played, get hyperfixiated on the whole franchise and literally never stop talking about dumb small details that I saw in a game and talk about that small detail a lot also go on a rampage of finding all the info I can of certain character.

[flatstarcarcosa]

danger & dread (pt. 3)

summary: The most important thing in Van’s life is control, and having it. When their life starts falling apart, they and Slade both have to deal with the fact that emotional intimacy is a vastly different beast than psychical intimacy. Slade has to decide if he’s planning for a fling, or something else. Bill remains dubious of his intentions. word count: 5521, split into 3 parts warnings: abuse, violence, alcohol, smoking,

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    Van wakes up to the smell of eggs and hashbrowns. They jerk up in bed, blinking in the sunlight and expecting to see a metal table at the end of a metal cot. It was only four days, but their brain has already adjusted in some ways to the surroundings in jail. Realizing they're in a real bed takes a moment to sink in.     This isn't my bed, they think. They frown, trying to piece together the day before. Between having multiple breakdowns and multiple shots of rum, it's not an easy task.     Right...Slade found out they were in jail from their neighbor, and he paid the bail. He took them home, helped them pack their shit so they could find a hotel...and apparently, brought them to his place instead.     “Fair 'nuff,” they mumble as they swing their legs over the side of the bed. “Saves me money.” They shuffle into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from their eye and yawning. Rufus is sitting attentively at Slade's feet, watching carefully for any dropped food. He looks over at Van, flaps his tail against the floor once, and turns his attention back to the stove. Slade turns to look at them, holding a frying pan full of scrambled eggs in one hand and a spatula in the other.     “Disclaimer,” he says, scooping hot eggs and potatoes onto a couple plates, “I've never been much of a cook. This is about the extent of my abilities.”     “If it's good enough for Waffle House it's fine,” Van says. They sit down at the table, accepting a plate and a fork and begin inhaling eggs as fast as they can.     “You didn't eat in jail, did you?” Slade asks, sitting across from them while stating the obvious. 

    “Bro, they couldn't even cook the rice all the way, bro,” Van says. “I forgot what it was like to be this fucking hungry.”     Slade says nothing in response. He lets Van eat in peace, and comes around the side of the table to dump the rest of his hash browns onto their plate before they have a chance to ask for them. He stacks his plate in the sink and slides an ash tray and a pack of cigarettes across the table. Van pushes their plate away and reaches for them, leaning back in the chair and blowing smoke out of their nostrils.     “I wanted to ask you something,” he says, lighting his own cigarette. “Before she starts calling and gets you all upset again. He pauses, tapping ash and chewing on his tongue for a moment.     “Well?” Van asks. Slade takes a moment to observe them. Their eyes are clear, and although they look pale and still exhausted, they're not as out of it as they were last night.     Good a time as any.     “Why don't you just move in with me?” he asks. “The only reason you moved back home with your mom is because without your job you couldn't afford to keep renting your place. It's not like you wanted to, you just didn't think you had anywhere else to go.”     “Yeah,” Van says, “no shit. I knew this was going to be a shit idea, but I didn't have anywhere else to go.”     “Well, that's what I'm saying,” Slade insists. “You do. I'm giving you one.”     “This condo isn't exactly big enough for two people,” Van says. They're fishing for a distraction, he can feel it. He grins a little.     “The whole 'Deathstroke' thing still hasn't sunk in for you, huh?” he asks. “I have houses all over the world, Van. We wouldn't have to stay here. You could go anywhere you wanted, as far away from her as you wanted. I know you've talked about Washington before, or at the least the pacific northwest in general.”     Van fidgets, shifting their weight in the chair and playing with their cigarette against the side of the ash tray. They bite their lip as tears start welling up in their eyes. The barely-repaired dam lets loose again.     “I-I don't...want to...bother anyone else,” they choke out, dropping the cigarette to press their hands to their face. Slade exhales a lungful of smoke and leaves the butt to smoke in the ash tray. He stands at Van's side, putting an arm around their shoulders and letting them decide how much contact they want. They lean into him, turning their face to bury it against his stomach.    “You've never bothered me,” he says. “If you had I would've let those wannabe mercenaries gut you and toss you off the end of the pier like they wanted. Just because I heal quickly doesn't mean getting shot is fun, and if I'm not being paid I don't step in front of bullets for just anyone.” He rubs circles into their back, taking note of the tension in between their shoulder blades.     “You haven't been yourself since you moved back in with her,” he continues. “You rarely leave the house, and when you do you're not present in the moment. You're constantly canceling plans or ignoring me outright in order to isolate yourself. You haven't picked up a camera or a paintbrush or even a stolen bank pen in months. I didn't want to say anything before, I assumed it was because of what happened over the summer, in which case, fair.     “But now I know it's not, and that it's your mother. Am I wrong?”     He's not, and he knows it. He just wants them to say it, out loud, in a setting where maybe they can convince themself at least a little bit that it is not in fact, them.     “It's her,” Van says softly. “I came so close. I saved up money from that fucking job, I was being careful. I didn't want to go back, I didn't want to go back to feeling like a trapped fucking rat left to go insane in a cage. But I figured, if I couldn't do it myself, then what was the point?”     They fall silent again and pull away to put their head on the table.     “I'm so tired,” they say. “I'm...I'm tired to the bone, down to my fucking soul and I don't know what I'm going to do or who I can count on for anything and I'm just so- fucking- tired.”     “Yeah,” Slade says. “I know how that goes.” He brushes some loose hair out of Van's face, letting his fingers brush against their cheek. The bruise is beginning to change color.   “I don't think I'm going to be able to work again,” Van says. “I've been too sick for too long and while too young. I don't have enough of a consistent wok history. I only got the job in the condo office by chance.”     “That's not an issue,” he says. Before Van gets a chance to speak again, he cuts them off. He already knows where they're going: they're going to list off every little thing their mother was screaming about being their fault and they're going to want Slade to to say it's not their fault. He doesn't have the time nor the patience for that. At least, not right now.     “None of it is an issue,” he says firmly. “Do you want to at least think about it?”     “I'll...think about it, yeah,” they say. Slade lets go, and gives them space. He threw in thinking about it at the last second, realizing that otherwise it would seem as if he was demanding it. Van's fragile enough at the moment without feeling like they owe him something for helping them last night. He meant what he said to Bill; he has no plans to just keep them around until he gets bored of them like a child with a new toy. He may not know what exactly his plans are, but at least it's nothing nefarious.     For now.

   Van keeps their distance the rest of the day. Slade insists he hangs onto their cell phone and takes the multiple irate calls from their mother. First she was screaming about not being able to get into the house. He assumes she figured some way in, as the next call was about there being a lock on Van's door. The third one was threatening to call the police on Van for “stealing” the Challenger. Slade had to explain to her that a person cannot steal an item that is legally theirs and he still isn't convinced she understood him.     By the time the fourth call comes in, he pops the battery out of the back of the phone and tosses the whole thing in his silverware drawer.     He's sitting on the balcony, enjoying the sound of the ocean below when Van opens the sliding glass door and steps out. 

    “Where...would we go?” they ask, leaning against the glass.     “What?” he asks, craning his neck to look at them.     “If I wanted to move in with you,” they say, “where would we go?”     Slade turns his head back to the sea. “Well, if you want to stay by the beach, there's houses going up for sale all over the place.”     “I'm tired of the beach.” Van says.     “Got anything else?” he asks.    “...I miss the mountains,” they say.     “I have a place in Vermont you might like.”     “I've never been to Vermont.”     “Would you like to?”     Silence.     The ocean roars softly in the distance.     “Yeah,” they say, “I think I might.”