sordidery

[sordidery]

staying aboard the ship is making her restless, muscles coiled up and tensed to strike. jack says it’s best to wait it out, like time will scab over the wound. anne thinks jack’s being a pussy, letting another crew talk bad to his face and still trying to talk it out. she keeps her objections to herself, clenched between her teeth. what does she know about avoiding a fight? she’ll follow him down this road, and the next, and when the situation inevitably devolves into a fight, she’ll be at his side.

he’s saying anne helped him. she guesses that ain’t a full lie, but she’s surprised jack would give the captain anything close to the truth. then, she’s pissed she thought any better of jack. he’s never in his right mind when vane is involved. jack thinks getting close to the man is going to change him, transform himself into the type of legend he wants to be. the way she sees it, the only thing vane has done since jack started clinging to his coattails is drag them all through his mud. charles vane is half the man jack is, but only anne knows it, and that ain’t enough for him.

any mention of that day is enough to raise her hackles. she’d never seen anyone change somebody’s life for the better just because they could. she don’t know that she’ll ever see something like that again. but jack had come around, long and gangly with youth, and killed a man anne thought was undying. all because he couldn’t fathom a kid like anne having to suffer the way she was. he’s stupid not to see it— that’s the type of man worth following.

she steps in a half-step, all but melted into jack's side, slipping closer like a knife between two ribs. jack’s eyeing her, trying to smooth things over before the going gets rough, but she looks past him. her hat blots out the sun, lets her get an eye full of charles vane. he’s all muscle, sweat, grime. he doesn’t look much different than any of the rest of them. she doesn’t want vane to know jack. to know that in all his fucking talking, there’s something worth listening to. what’s vane need to know about them except what he already does? jack is his quartermaster, dealing with the crew when vane is too much of a drunken fucking coward, and anne goes where he goes. anne snarls, feels her lip curl to show her teeth. fuck jack. he can be the savior, his own man, or he can be vane’s lapdog, but she hates him playing at both. she isn’t going to coddle vane for his sake. "the fuck you asking for?"

charles watches the water; jack watches charles. as always, anne lurks behind, a comforting shadow at his back. he understands her, is transparent to her. how could he not be? when they'd first met, they'd seen each other plain: her a wounded girl and him a stupid boy with her shitheel of a husband's blood on his sword. it had been a rash and foolish impulse, but he hadn't been able to turn a blind eye to the bastard hurting her as everyone else in the bar had. a rash and foolish impulse that had changed the trajectory of his life forever. jack rackham is not a religious man, but he knows a miracle when he sees one, and he and anne finding each other had been surely that.

charles, on the other hand, remains an enigma in many ways since they joined his crew. jack doesn't understand him the way he does anne, but he wants to. studies the captain as he would any new task he's set his mind to learning.

he'd expected more resistance from charles at jack's suggestion to bide their time while he smooths things over with the other crew, but his captain had acquiesced quite readily. perhaps it's a sign that charles is starting to trust jack's counsel more. or perhaps, as anne would imply with a disdainful scoff and a toss of her head, jack's getting ahead of himself.

he's caught between charles' brutal blue stare at his front and anne's at his back. he doesn't have to know anne to know she'd kill charles vane before disclosing her past to him or any other man. but jack doesn't have to be a particularly shrewd quartermaster to know that lying to one's captain is also, generally, ill-advised.

"ah, well," he improvises. "it was a long time ago. we were both quite young --practically still children, really. i... killed a man at this run-down, shitty little bar. anne...." (anne, tiny and ghost-white in a dress that barely fit her, staring up at him) "helped me get out of there, and we've been together ever since." he half-turns, because some inane animal instinct forbids jack to turn his back on a man so fearsome as charles (even if that is also his captain), but enough to catch @sordidery's eye and attempt to determine if she's satisfied by his deliberate clouding of the truth. turning back to vane: "eventually, we made it to nassau, joined your crew, and, well." he does a subdued little flourish with his hands. "here we are."

[sordidery]

JR : THOUGHT YOU SAID YOU AND NASSAU WERE THROUGH.

CV : GOT WORRIED YOU TWO WOULD BE LOST WITHOUT ME. GLAD TO SEE I WAS WRONG ABOUT THAT.

[sordidery]

hi! i have had obscenely bad black sails brainrot and it seems to not be going away anytime soon. if it helps, i think i’m doing some of my best work on tumblr over on flint. come join me! we can do crossovers and aus aplenty

[sordidery]

AND WHEN THE URCA'S OURS, WHAT'S TO STOP ME FROM KILLING YOU ANYWAY?

WELL, THAT'S A FEW WEEKS FROM NOW, ISN'T IT? WE MIGHT BE FRIENDS BY THEN.

[sordidery]

in the end, there's no difference between trusting someone and underestimating them. (silverflint)

the whip of the wind is familiar, energizing even when it aims to topple you off your feet. silver, beside you at the boat's edge, hovering a half-step from the railing like you might swat him off with the same ease you would slap at a gnat. maybe you would.

you blink, swish his words across your tastebuds. the ocean stretches out endlessly behind him, just the crew and the sails and the hazy blue the horizon turns when the sky melts into the sea. you've spent your whole life on boats. the imagery should be nothing, as commonplace as the hair creeping up the back of your hand or the grain of wood. but that endlessness, it can feel crushing. your ship is a pinprick, an ant, as much one of god's creatures as the scurrying little men that live on it. with something as simple as a change in wind- the forming of an errant batch of clouds, the walrus could be struck down, sank and forgotten. you've learned to know anything can kill you and made it your choice to make sure nothing will.

your weight shifts. a boot shuffles in front of the other, toe-box hitting the railings. you turn your head away from him, towards the choppy, wave-laden water. he doesn't need an answer, you didn't need the commentary. fruitlessly, you try to conjure some image of the life john silver has lived. try to imagine what story he could've made up about you. neither much matter. the truth. his truth, yours. life is a battle of will. conviction. trust and truth and all that other shit can fall to the wayside. "a lesson hard learned?"

[sordidery]

Pppffff

[sordidery]

you feel your eyebrows raise up to your hairline, mechanical and strained as a halyard, your hand coming to rub over your eyes. like the tide, hunger rolls in your belly, angry and nauseating. every muscle cries mutiny. the body rots from the inside out, cannibalizes its own reserves, and the crew threatens to do the very same. beneath silver’s eyes are streaks of angry red, odd in comparison to his pale, cracking lips. he looks more wraith than man. he sounds fucking exhausted.

something in you writhes at the idea of john silver, pardoned man, muzzled by the king. you shoot to attention, bones popping, temper flashing like gun powder igniting. you’re moving faster than your tired body can account for. you cross around your desk, thigh pressing into the edge of the table, invading silver's space.

"bit late for that." you spit, bottom lip trembling. the exertion gets you, lightheaded and heavy-limbed. your chin dips, close to the slim line of his exposed neck. with the angry puffs of air from your nostrils comes the familiar smell of silver, human, salty, bloody. the pair of you have been at an unwilling impasse, both interlocked in this damned partnership, and you are aware you're closing in on a distance you purposefully left between you.

you know him to be so careful with his words. always nearing some sordid, perverse elegance, close to a mastery of the pirate's common tongue. you wonder what he means to provoke from you with this. does he enjoy garnering your ire? what does he have to gain with you rendered raw and livid? your tongue laves against your lip, a scratchy feeling like a dry palm over splintered wood. "remember yourself."

your voice waivers, and you raise a hand, flesh quivering as you hold it just aside silver's sleeve. "remember your obligations. eat your fucking rations." and then- then, it is gone. that animal inside you sinks from beneath your tongue, pockets itself behind protruding ribs. your fingers pull together into a fist, push into your map-laden desk until the knuckles threaten to crack, and you seek out his eyes with the same fervor you sought out the urca gold. "rest. don't make me make you."

@sordidery: GO REST. I'M NOT ASKING.

the air is dense and humid, even belowdecks. it's as if the sky itself is holding its breath, waiting for a conclusion that feels inevitable. hunger is nothing new to you, not after the life you've lived. but this time the burning in your chest as you glare at flint has nothing to do with starvation.

you're not sure what angers you more: his casual dismissal, or the implicit acknowledgement of your weakness. the crew has been on rationed food and water for the last week, but flint hasn't reduced your rations, and it disgusts you, you getting more than the able-bodied men. you're half convinced it's some kind of mind game, a fuck you on his part. a testament to your uselessness, from the captain who thinks himself better than his crew. the way he sees you wouldn't have bothered you at all, once. but that was another time -- another man, one who could slip into any shape and any story he pleased.

it's not only your days of approaching unannounced that are behind you now. you grit your teeth. does he see how your good leg shakes with weakness, or is it the whiteness of your knuckles as you grip the edge of his desk for stability that gives you away? you're bothered by it -- the way the captain's eyes have flayed you to the bone and found you wanting. "i said i'm fine," you say, only it comes out as a snarl. everything is too still -- in the cabin, on the ship. the look on his face.

you stare at the maps on his desk for something to focus on -- an escape from that piercing, judging gaze. you know you should leave at his dismissal. but something deep within you bares its teeth, and that thing simmering within you sparks anew as you say one of the stupider things you could say in this moment. "we should have taken the fucking pardons."

[sordidery]

I AM NOT YOUR FINAL GIRL, p1          .    .    .

[  *  ]      writing prompt      )         :       below, you will find a series of various prompts from claire c. holland's, i am not your final girl. these can also be altered as seen fit to better suit the characters in question. content warning: the following prompts may not be suitable for everyone as they contain references to violence, sex, blood, death, and murder.

"there's a trap, an accusation there, a snare ready and taunt for loose limbs." "aren't I my own woman? or is that not enough?" "they look at me like I'm hiding something." "something can be vulnerable and powerful both at once." "you cannot understand this, and I have grown so weary trying to explain." "white fences are only made of wood; they splinter so easily." "what is it about their faces?" "you smell the same. you taste the same." "I got tired of hearing it was my fault, that's all." "when the moon makes bodies dark." "I got cursed, in every way a person can." "you kill yourself, over and over, to be different." "the drive for something that feels like desire, but it's so much more." "we don't fantasize until we do." "you can't trust your body unless you embrace it." "you might say things didn't end well, but I had fun. ask anyone." "I'm so tired of waiting —aren't you?— for the world to become good and tolerable and kind." "it doesn't always end this way." "the air crackled with our potential, neon and electric." "watch for me, even when it's moonless. I'll throw a spark." "but in the darkness, the night monsters come." "because i have changed. did you really think i wouldn't?" "you can't blame them for being confused." "the ghosts are worse. they never go away, only wait for perfect moments to throttle your windpipe, choke off your breath." "there is nothing else in this world like realizing you're going to live and not being sure you can." "I'm so tired of waiting. I won't do it anymore." "you smell the same. you taste the same. but you're different. you're different." "you'd be shocked what a woman can live without. " "your personality is apartments, doors that can be closed." "when they come, they'll take pieces; they can't carry it all." "they can't change you too much. " "when it happens to us, it's for the best, but when it happens to them it's tragedy." "how did I grow so motherless?" "blood is black and barely shows." "who would imagine any girl's teeth could do so much damage." "think, how long we've been forced to consume these sins of our fathers." "I touch tender parts of myself in the shower, remembering the sound, the snapping of his neck. how it felt like power." "watch how they devour." "my hunger is so great, so open. I have lived through a lifetime of famine, and yet no one will look in my hungry eyes." "they avert their gazes, frown pityingly at one another, grumble." "this is how I learned to find you in the fog." "we're like roaches, we thrive."

[sordidery]

you watch silver, lips pursed as he rises, unmoved by his glare. there's some sort of challenge there, indignance in the clear blue of his eyes. you're almost sure it has something to do with the trek through the jungle, when you'd easily hauled him back up, palm around his bicep, his shoulder. there hadn't been time to nurse his ego, to watch him dig into spent-stores of energy to stand back up. you'd needed to keep moving, and, eventually you did, his hand in a death-grip on your collar the rest of the journey. what he thinks you're going to comment about the moment is beyond you. the gallows is not a place you're interested in squabbling with your quartermaster. finally relenting, you look away, eyes to the tree-line, giving a dour snort. if you could sleep, you would.

silver is nothing if not enterprising-- frenetic energy pours off of him, twitching through him even as he slept. he still thinks he can slink his way out of this. out of anything. you suppose history has yet to prove him wrong. that naive surety has been drained from you, slow and steady through the years, like sand through an hourglass. perhaps a few years ago, you would have fought this, a sure death sentence for you and your crew. you'd have bent the whole of reality to your will. tonight, you find you cannot muster up that unearned, unchecked confidence.

the foliage and the wooden bars and the mangy bodies blur, neglecting to take in the finer details of your imprisonment. there's an ache in your chest, unrelated to the malnutrition. you can't stop thinking of the orion, of pardons from the king. had you not given everything to earn such a thing, once upon a time? your mission, the very thing you shed your humanity to follow, coming to realization with another at its helm. you'd abandoned that original idea, day by day, in pursuit of a loftier goal. you'd promised the pirates freedom, and here you are, in another cage. perhaps nassau will thrive under those pardons. they'd hear story of captain flint and how the sky opened up on he and his crew. all those that would dissent to the empire swallowed by the sea. would nassau live better for it? like a scolded dog, the island could submit to tyranny, settle for living emaciated than not at all.

he's missing that false smoothness when silver speaks again, desperate in the way dying men tend to get. you don't bother conjuring the energy to look to him, eyeing him from your peripherals. a sharp jut of cheekbone, the deep hollow below it, dark hair at his jaw. you can hear in his voice that he's just as parched as you. you find it sorely disappointing he doesn't see the inevitability, that talking their way out of imprisonment is just as impotent as fighting it, but you won't wrench his creature comforts from him on death's door.

the night is quiet, jungle died down to a thrum low enough that you can hear the distant murmur of voices, the world continuing on even with your back turned to it. a thump as you lean your head into the stripped wood bars, blankly looking up at the constellations above you. it's been so long since you looked to the stars for anything other than direction.

you frown, deep and taut as your skin screams with dehydration. "there was a change of guard. about an hour ago." you'd watched billy watch them, his eyes bright and alert. he was hoping to find physical weakness, the same as your quartermaster hoped to spot evidence of dissent. neither men have had to make decisions like this, but you have. if this were nassau, if you were on the other side of this cage, you would cull the few to save the many. for the sanctity of the isle, captain flint would execute double the men, triple. "i imagine billy is overrun with ideas of escape."

the pain in the metal boot is what wakes you. there must be sand or debris in it, and they rub raw your irritated skin. a sharp inhale, too loud for the stillness of the maroon prison.

@sordidery: YOU CAN GO BACK TO SLEEP. IT’S SAFE.

the rough grain of flint’s voice is familiar by now. still weak from starvation, the formidable man looks tired, his eyes sunken. he looks almost like he wishes to give up, which is, of course, antithetical to the captain flint you know. it’s unnerving.

“i’ve slept enough.” had he been awake the entire time? the idea of flint watching over you as you and the other men slept, with those lightless eyes makes something in your stomach twist. reminds you of those days you’d slept on his window-seat, when you were first healing. the fear in your stomach when you thought he’d figured out your lie about the urca gold. at least, you’d figured at the time , he’d wake you up before he slit your throat. he seemed the type.

there’s something liberating about no longer having to fear that lie unraveling. you shift on the rough ground, and the movement hurts everything in your aching body: the thinness of flesh and muscle over bone. you must look pathetic, squirming like a worm on a hook, and you find yourself glaring up at flint in warning, daring him to say something about it.

“no, i need to think.” you need to plan, you need to get out of this. there is always a way out. dehydration has gotten to your mind at last. you’d been dreaming of sharks with rolling green eyes.

you find your gaze drifting to flint again. in the dim light, his severe features look carved, wooden as a masthead figure.

you wonder what sharks dream of.

[sordidery]

Send "What if they kissed?"

and I'll write a scene where our muses kiss, even if they aren't shipped together. it is it's own thing and doesn't have to lead to an official ship. a "what if scenario"

[sordidery]

haven't been writing much but i have been losing my ever-loving mind over black sails. you guys will be seeing flint here soon

[sordidery]

Put ☎ in my ask for your muses info in my muses phone:

NAME:

RINGTONE: 

PICTURE: 

LAST TEXT RECEIVED: 

LAST TEXT SENT: 

[sordidery]

cont from here. @drunivers

light glints off the gore on herbert’s gloves, blinding to tired eyes, and the man’s entire body goes rigid. dan is moving before he knows he intended to, surveying the open chest cavity. the anger coming off herbert in waves is fine, he can be pissed all he likes, especially when dan was convinced the awful CRUNCH! was herbert sawing through his own hand. it’s paranoia. the stress and the lack of sleep. (would herbert make such a careless mistake? would he stick himself with an unmeasured dose of re-agent and just keep working?) dan’s teeth grind, face pruning with the sheer effort it takes for him not to lose his cool.

"when was the last time you slept? or ate a real meal?" a weighty glance into the open cavity below them. "you really expect me to believe you’re in working condition?" he’s rounding in on herbert now, nipping wildly in hopes of catching skin between his teeth. he’s pissed at the implication herbert is above human things such as sleep, at the disapproving skew to herbert’s mouth. christ, it’s pathological what he does to dan. herbert constantly pushes and pushes and then has the gall to be pissy when dan breaks.

below that anger, buried under mountains of horror and shame, there’s a much stronger emotion.

it’s not the first time he’s had this concern. herbert could easily rip the partnership away. he could reclaim ownership of their work, that is already nearly completely his, and leave dan with nothing. some days, he can warp that fear into something blissful. utopian. herbert could leave. it’s a parallel reality where dan can forfeit responsibility for the outcome of the work and return to normalcy. he could do something after getting home from the hospital. maybe poker with work buddies, catch up on tv, take out a pretty nurse. . . most times, though, this thought makes panic set in. what would dan actually do with that endless stretch of time between waking up and going back to sleep? with whom would he actually want to spend it? life without meg has been hard enough. without herbert, dan has no idea what future he would be working towards. he doesn’t want to not be herbert’s partner. but he needs herbert to be equally his partner.

an accusatory finger jabs out. "you’re being reckless. we’ll both make stupid mistakes." he doesn’t know when he began building a case towards herbert following him up the stairs, but suddenly he is. he flounders for words, for the right argument. he’d like to avoid sounding desperate, or needy, mainly because he’s feeling crotchety and he doesn’t want to give herbert the satisfaction. dan’s jaw works. he smooths his outstretched hand over herbert’s shoulder, possessive, as he peers down at the scientist and their creation. "he’ll still be here after you’ve had some rest."

[sordidery]

film ask meme : RE-ANIMATOR (1985) directed by STUART GORDON.

a selection of lines from the 1985 film re-animator. modified for rp purposes.

you idiot! you'll ruin my notes.

of course he's dead.

i gave him life.

your optimism is touching, but a waste of time.

don't know why they keep locked doors around here.

nobody wants in and ain't nobody gettin' out.

i'm sorry, [name]. i didn't mean to scare you.

i just didn't know anybody was here.

what were you researching?

i'm afraid the place is still kind of a mess.

you'll never even know that i'm here.

you didn't say why you left.

the brain can only survive an additional six to twelve minutes.

we all want to retain our personalities in some idyllic afterlife.

perhaps it takes desire. an obsessive desire.

these people are here to learn and you're closing their minds before they even have a chance!

look, it's not you, really. it's just a lot of little things.

do you ever see him?

i told you. he's a little cracked.

i certainly didn't think you'd want to find it like that.

i was busy pushing bodies around, as you well know.

i knew you were fond of it.

you killed him. i know you did.

all life is a physical and chemical process, correct?

i've conquered brain death.

do you agree that he's dead now?

i think you're being blinded by your emotions.

let's go. we're not going to find anything.

something should have happened by now.

i followed you here, and i'm gonna follow you until you listen to me!

it listened to me. it made a conscious act.

i want you to think of me as someone you can come to with your problems.

i don't have to talk to you.

oh, it is not the appearance of life. it is life.

i had to kill him.

i guess i'm just getting paranoid.

i tried to hate you. i wanted so much to hate you.

[sordidery]

#hu1ksmash -- a serious roleplay blog by dru.

[sordidery]

"good to know," nat offers between kisses, pupils blown out. james’ lips against her skin, his touch lingering like a brand. she wants so badly to give him something real in reciprocation, to return his carefulness with something that is hers. where would she start? what does she even have to give him? the voice in her head has been clinical for as long as she can remember. the red room taught her how to block out anything that would detract from her ability to carry out a mission, and the more she lets in, the more she realizes she blocked out. a breath, harsh through her nose.

from almost entirely beneath her, he is so pliant, trusting. it’s unearned, his complete belief in her, and it makes her throat close up. there are a great many things she cannot do for him, cannot give him. but she can give him unfettered access to her skin. with more effort than she thinks it should take, natasha settles further into his touch, drinks in the weight of his hand against her ribs. james has always been sweet at his core, a romantic, and nat often struggles not to react transactionally. eye for eye. kiss for kiss. james’ eyes are wide and endless. he wants forgiveness and can’t ask for it, but natasha knows there is nothing that needs to be forgiven. her thumb brushes over his bottom lip, slides along the hollow of his cheek and up, over the minuscule crinkles around his eyes.

"you keep your hair long now." it comes out wounded sounding, vulnerable, but perhaps that’s because she’s speaking in their mother tongue. the past looms overhead, memories that choke and smother her. she may never leave it fully behind. some part of her will always be natalia romanova, wasting away in the red room. she knows she lost something integral in russia, something human, and she knows she will never have that same piece of herself back. [but if she is always there, always reliving the same string of memories, then she is always with james, past and present, then and now.]

her physical stake on him expands, sliding her hand against the base of his skull. gone are the days of secret, stolen kisses. natasha closes the distance once more, unhurried, and she kisses him as gentle as she can bare. in english, again, still so close to him that they might as well be kissing, "i like it."

her touch is grounding, even more so than her presence. bucky is more than just aware as to what this means, how difficult it may be for her to be like this with him.(remembers then, going against his instincts, going against what he's expected to do. brought from the ground up, good for one thing and it's following orders). his expression lightens only a bit, it's still enough for him to meet her eyes again. and it's heavy to have a memory of them, how they have changed, how she looks at him now. (what she knows, what he doesn't. he'll have to ask. just not today.)

tilts his head to her, moves along with it, easy for her. it's different. it's a lot. he tries not to think too hard about what's been said, it's another thing that will haunt him. once he lays down, finds himself alone in the dark it will crawl it's way out of him, like everything else that seems to fall on his shoulders. alright, nat says and bucky has no other choice but to take it. he's said what he could say, the rest goes with it.

he moves closer to her, if he could be any closer he would be. he doesn't need to try and hide what doesn't feel human about himself. it can just exist there, be drowned out by everything else between them. at the same time there's a connection in a way he didn't know he missed. what is there to do when you weren't aware something was missing. bucky craves it, wants more of it. and in this room, in these four walls he supposes he can have it. he presses a kiss to her jaw, he's already said sorry, but in this moment he hopes to forget about it just a bit more. his hand wraps around her, presses another kiss to the corner of her mouth. "it comes along with the being alive deal." he points out sighing, looking at nat. adoration and something underneath it. he doesn't remember if before he ran this hot. there's no point of comparison. bucky attempts not to really think about it, buries it just like everything else. he's done a halfway good job.

thinks how he could die all over again and it would be fine. he remembers her, and that's what matters. everything else is falling into place. bucky breathes and it's a little shaky, like he's letting go of it. like he's just fine, like he didn't put a bullet through nat, like he could have lost her before having her again. his thumb rubs at her sides, it's simple, he's just a man. and he's enamoured with her. as simple as that. he doesn't want to leave. (he's always been tired when it's raining, now not so much, pumped with whatever they gave him. he doesn't sleep much.) smiles only at the fact that she hasn't moved away despite complaining, kisses her again. chaste and soft. on the lips. (a secret between the two of them, he doesn't need to say it.)

[sordidery]

@drunivers, herbert west for daniel cain. "i don’t care that you run away, i care that you do it badly."

"i'm not running!" shocking how loud his voice can be through gritted teeth. he rubs at the skin around his temples, tugs at tufts of over-grown hair. it's always--- he isn't running from herbert. he's just not trying to make up the distance, anymore, to cram himself into a space where only the dead can thrive. there’s barely time for sleep between the hospital and the basement and the endless errands. all herbert does is push him away and down. dan plays the part of housewife and lab assistant and provider. he plays passionate doctor, he plays dedicated scientist. whatever they need. whatever herbert needs. whatever he wants. if herbert says 'heel, boy,' then heel dan fucking does.

except, maybe he isn’t submitting as easily these past few days. he’s a grown man and his job is stressful and everything reminds him of meg. his nagging patients, the endless hallways, the meandering sputter of instant coffee brewing. he's lonely, a lot of the time, and then the rest of the time he is with herbert and he is too whole. he doesn't want to feel complete. not like this. not as this.

in fact, maybe, maybe he is running. he's sprinting away from the life he keeps choosing over and fucking over. and herbert knows, like he knows everything. sometimes dan thinks herbert knows exactly what dan needs from him and he withholds it just to see what dan does. a sigh racks through his body, bone deep. "my life revolves around the work, herbert. i’m just-" what is he? before herbert, before their work, daniel cain was sleepwalking, aimless and half-blinded through a peaceful dream. and now, what is he? murderer, queer, sub-par physician? he’s alive, the work and the dream is alive, but living it is a waking nightmare. "i’m tired, herb."