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megalony · 5 years ago

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Family ties- Part 9

Here is the next part of my dad! Ben Hardy series which I hope you are all enjoying so far. Feedback is always appreciated.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @rogermeddow @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez @jonesyaddiction @rogahs-drowse @milanosaurus @httpfandxms @saint-hardy @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls

Summary: Ben and (Y/n) were single parents but they are trying to raise their kids together as one big family. Now they’re finally having a baby of their own, but that proves hard when there’s a problem with their baby.

Series masterlist

Enjoy.

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Ben had never seen anything like that before.

He remembered exactly what both his boys looked like the moment they were born, he remembered their skin being very pale and almost grey, he remembered the fluids that covered them and made him feel a bit queasy. He could clearly see the blood still smudged onto their tender skin, he could remember Hugo's button nose and the way that Cody's nose had turned up slightly at the end. He could see their wrinkles and their fingers that were so small and delicate he felt he could break them with one single touch.

He could feel them in his arms now just like the first time he had been able to hold them. Ben could still feel them wriggling in his arms, brushing their little noses with the back of their hands, he could feel their weight in his arms, especially Hugo.

But Ben had never felt so disturbed yet illusioned as he had the moment his third son was born.

He had never seen a heart before.

He didn't do dissections in biology, he refused because the thought made him queasy and unsettled. He had never properly seen a heart before and he had never seen a human heart. He didn't know what he had been expecting when he thought about their boy's heart, Ben didn't know whereabouts it would be, if it would take up a lot of his chest, if he would see it beating or even if he would see it at all.

The father had been so sure he wouldn't be allowed in the operating room or that he simply wouldn't be able to catch a glimpse of his son when he was brought into the world. But the moment he did, time stopped and Ben felt like he was going to be sick.

There was no layer of skin covering the vital organ like the nurse said there possibly could be. If that was the case Ben would have felt a little better because it would just look like a lump on a newborn's chest that needed to be removed.

But the heart was there in all its glory, the tissue was a very dark shade of crimson with a tinge of maroon to it. The crimson contrasted to the rest of his son's body that was very pale and grey with cream-coloured fluids and traces of blood washed over him. Ben felt a lump in his throat the moment he noticed that he could physically see his son's heart beating. It was something Ben didn't want to see no matter how much of a phenomenon it was. It wasn't normal to see his own child's heart other than on a sonogram and Ben didn't like it because it made his baby look so fragile, so helpless and unprotected and that cut Ben to the core.

When Ben strained his eyes, he could see the two main blood vessels at the top of the heart which disappeared under the skin like a road passing into an underground tunnel. The heart was so small that every time it started to beat Ben thought it was going to burst like a berry. It was situated more in the middle of the baby's chest than to the left like Ben would have thought, it just looked like someone had stuck a small balloon onto his chest for fun. Ben wished that was all it was.

But his heart was beating. It was continuing to work despite his fragile body now being out in the open instead of staying in the protection he had formed in. There had been a chance his heart would stop the moment he had to begin to breathe on his own and was able to move and properly live, but it was beating perfectly fine.

The moment his boy started to part his lips and breathe, Ben had to sit down before his knees caved in. Ben's feet started to rub together as he clamped his hands down over his knees, trying to calm himself down but his mind was screaming when his boy started to move. Ben wanted the baby to stay exactly how he was and not move a muscle so that his heart wouldn't be bumped or moved or damaged.

He could barely feel (Y/n)'s hand gripping his own so tightly that she was cutting off his circulation. (Y/n) wanted to sit up, she wanted to move and twist her body around so she could keep watching her boy but she was stuck laying on her back feeling like she was paralysed below the waist. She had caught a glimpse of their boy and he was nothing like she imagined and she didn't want to take her eyes off of him for even a second in case something happened to him.

(Y/n) didn't mind when Ben slowly let go of her hand because she knew what he was doing. He pushed himself to shaking legs and stumbled over to see the nurses and two doctors fussing over his boy. The blond watched their hands shake as they tried to clean him up without touching or going near to his heart. He watched a nurse gently hold his son's hands when they moved so he didn't catch his heart.

Ben's eyes followed them as two nurses and two doctors suddenly started to wheel his son out of the room, clearly needing to give him an MRI like they suggested before they ook him straight down to the operating theatre for his operation. They needed an image of his heart so they knew where each blood vessel was and the tissues and to see how his ribs had formed behind his heart so they could cut into him and put everything right. They didn't want to walk into this blindfolded and Ben was thankful for that.

His boy was clearly stable, he was breathing, his heart was beating and no one was panicking or fussing too much over him. He was as stable as they had wanted him to be and when they got him to the MRI they would sedate him, get an image of his chest and rush him to cut into him. Right now, Ben knew everything was okay because his boy was alright and so was (Y/n).

But the next twenty-four hours weren't going to be as easy as that.

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"Any news?" (Y/n) could hear the desperation in her voice and she could feel the pleading in her eyes that was radiating off of her but she didn't care.

She didn't care that she looked a mess or that Ben looked paranoid and sleep-deprived, she wanted any kind of news that the nurse would give her about their baby boy like they had been promised. Ben had followed their boy to the MRI and had watched from outside of the room and he had followed them right down to the operating room before being told he couldn't go inside which he already knew.

Since then he had come back to (Y/n) who had been moved back into her room when her stitches had been done. They had been waiting for seven hours now and it was physically killing them. It had been over twenty-four hours since Ben had last gotten some form of sleep and it was showing on his face. His eyes had dark purple and red marks underneath them, his face was unusually pale and his eyes were half-lidded and bleak right until a nurse or doctor walked into the room.

His body was hunched over in the chair he had been in for the past two hours and his leg was no longer jittering up and down like it was before. He was worn down but he couldn't sleep because he didn't want to miss anything or have anything happen without him knowing or being there.

(Y/n) hadn't been able to sleep either, she simply found herself tapping her fingers against the bed as her mind ran away without her and only came back when someone entered the room.

A nurse had come in to tell her that the MRI had gone well and that their boy was now in surgery. Someone else had come in two hours ago to say that so far it was going well and since then they had heard nothing. Their doctor told them that they would be kept informed during the operation that was meant to last twelve hours or possibly longer. They had another five or so hours left and they didn't think they could get through it.

Ben had been on plane flights that had lasted longer than this but this felt so much worse. It felt like every time he looked at his watch, the hands moved backwards just to mess with his mind. He wanted the hours to fly by like they did when he was craving sleep at home or when he wanted a moment with his family to last forever.

"The surgeons have cut out your son's heart since the skin has welded around it and they were about to cut through his ribs when a vein burst. They patched it up quickly and the bleed didn't last long but it delayed them a little. They're just about to cut into his ribs and see if they can put the heart in the correct place."

Reaching over, (Y/n) grabbed Ben's hand tightly as she felt her own heart jumping in her chest like it was trying to break free. Her breathing started to stutter and become shallow at the news that wasn't sinking in properly.

Both her and Ben knew that the surgeons needed to take their time, but she thought they would have gotten past this stage by now. The MRI showed that the ribs weren't fused to the heart so it would be easy to cut the tissue and get the heart free. Then they just had to make an incision, cut through the ribs and fit the heart back before putting the ribs back so they would heal and then stitch the veins and arteries into place.

It was always a possibility that something would rupture like this but they had hoped it wouldn't because he was a newborn and a haemorrhage right now wasn't the most ideal thing for their baby. But if it had been patched up and he was seemingly okay, then it shouldn't be much of a problem.

The doctor had told them that they might need to take one or two of his ribs out to fit his heart back if there wasn't any room or it would put too much pressure on his heart and constrict it. But they hoped there would be enough space to make everything okay.

"He's okay up to now though, isn't he?" Ben wiped a few stray tears from his eyes as he could already feel his mind screaming and praying for this to work out. He wanted his boy to be okay, they wanted their baby so badly and they had gone through all of this for him. They didn't want his life to be snatched away from them so quickly and abruptly like this.

"His heart is still beating strongly and he's breathing fine, he's okay. Not too much longer now." With a kind smile, the nurse turned around and left the room, only having entered to give them a small update on their son's condition.

"I can't take this waiting around, I don't know what to do." (Y/n) carded her fingers through her matted hair as she felt the tears beginning to pour from her eyes. She was his mother but she was sitting here useless, not being able to do anything to help or even protect him. She couldn't even watch over him and make sure he really was okay and keep an eye on him because they wouldn't even let her stand at the door and look through the window.

What was she meant to do when her baby was having a life saving yet life-threatening operation? How was she meant to stay strong and hold herself together when there was nothing for her to do or to take her mind from this situation?

"The longer we wait, the better he'll be." Those were the only words Ben could think of that would be of any consolation to (Y/n). If they had to wait for another seven hours, it meant that their boy was still alive and being taken care of. It meant that the operation was working. If the operation didn't take too much longer then that would imply that it hadn't gone well and they couldn't save him or that he had passed away on the operating table. The longer this dragged out, the better their chances would be.

(Y/n) leaned her head on Ben's shoulder when he moved so he was laying on the bed beside her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders so he could pull her gently into his side.

Ben didn't stay like that for long, he soon shifted around so that he was laying on his side which allowed him to tuck his face into the crook of her neck, his arm splayed out around her waist as he moved (Y/n) so she was laying down. His head was beginning to ache and burn from lack of sleep and (Y/n) hadn't slept either. She hadn't been under anaesthetic during the C-section, she had a different medication that numbed her from the waist down so she was still awake. She needed sleep just as much as he did and Ben knew if they went to sleep time would go quicker.

"Ben, I can't sleep, what if something happens-"

"You want something to do, so go to sleep with me. We can't go and see him after the op if we're sleep-deprived and look like this, can we? And if something happens that nurse will wake one of us up." Ben wasn't going to sleep unless (Y/n) did and he wanted time to fly past. Whenever the kids couldn't sleep at Christmas, Ben always told them that the sooner they went to sleep the sooner they would get their presents and it was true. The quicker they fell asleep, the quicker time would pass them by.

Even if it was only for a mere hour, they deserved some sleep and then they could feel a bit more lively and awake when they got to see their baby after the operation.

With a sigh, (Y/n) held onto Ben's arm that was wrapped around her front before she leaned her head against his own, trying to close her eyes but her mind was still too active to go to sleep. But it did feel good to let her eyes have some rest and it made her body instantly feel more relaxed, especially with Ben curling his body around hers.

Normally, before (Y/n) was pregnant, Ben would move a lot in his sleep to the point (Y/n) always woke up with him practically smothering her laying on top of her. It never bothered her, it was endearing and he was like her personal heater. She liked him wrapping himself around her like a vine, she had missed it.

"If you're not going to sleep, try and think of a name for him. We need a name for when we go and visit him later." Ben whispered the words against her neck before he slowly started pressing open-mouthed kisses against her skin. He could tell she wasn't asleep and he just knew it was going to take her a while yet to fall asleep. It wasn't a bad thing, she was relaxing at least and if she thought of something other than what could go wrong, it might help the time pass by quicker.

They did need a name too, Ben didn't fancy going to see their boy after the operation and not knowing what to call him other than a nickname. He wanted a name so they could tell the nurse who could put his name down on the small wristband he would have to wear soon instead of having to write baby Jones on it.

Names had been a struggle this time around whereas with the boys Ben knew exactly what names he wanted before they were born and (Y/n) had Ellie in her head before the little girl was born. They had been slacking this time around and now they needed a name.

When Ben felt (Y/n) kissing his hair a while later, he didn't bother opening his eyes that were refusing to budge an inch, he simply wrapped himself around her a bit tighter to show that he was now awake. He had been drifting in and out of a dreamless state for what must have been an hour now but it did feel good to have a rest.

"Thought of a name yet?" Ben mumbled the words against (Y/n)'s neck, his breath tickling her skin as his voice was thick and laced with sleep.

The couple had talked about names before but nothing seemed to stick or sound right. Ben had chosen both his boy's names anyway and it had sort of been a deal that if they had a boy this time around, (Y/n) could choose the name and if it was a girl, Ben could choose.

"What about Billy?" (Y/n) turned her head a little more so she was looking at Ben properly, her eyes finding his own which finally managed to open and locked with her own. The name rattled around in his head as a smile pulled at his blushing lips. That was the name of the character Ben played in his latest movie role and Ben had to admit that it had a nice ring to it, it was a name that he liked.

"Hugo, Cody, Ellie and Billy." Ben nodded his head as he reeled off all their names, Billy did sound nice.

The next few hours passed by in a blur for the couple.

They fell asleep for two hours or so, sat and talked about anything under the sun, sat in silence and worried and then just reverted to humming random melodies that popped into their heads to try and calm themselves down. All the while, they stayed wrapped up in each other's embrace as they waited for the verdict to come through about Billy.

Just as Ben sat up on the edge of the bed and stretched his arms up towards the ceiling, the door clicked open and their doctor walked through. Ben could instantly tell that he wasn't here for an update, this was it. This was the moment they had been waiting for for hours now. He was here because the operation had finished.

(Y/n) quickly sat up when she saw who it was entering the room, feeling her heart suddenly pounding against her ribcage as she latched her arms around Ben's bicep. She perched her chin on his shoulder, feeling his hand move to grasp her own. They had been waiting for this moment since they found out that Billy had a bad heart, they had been dreading this moment and dreaming about it and how things would play out. But now that it was finally happening, neither of them really knew if they wanted to go through with this or not if it wasn't going to work in their favour.

They couldn't believe that these past few months and the thirteen hours Billy had been in an operation could all be for nothing.

Both their eyes followed the doctor as sat down on the plastic chair that he pulled over next to the bed but they couldn't read his expression. They didn't know if he was going to give them good news or bad.

"It was a success."

Those three words caused a torrential downpour of tears to flurry from both parent's eyes. (Y/n) tucked her face into Ben's shoulder, trying to smother her small cries of relief as Ben tipped his head down to look at his lap, feeling himself beginning to shake. Billy hadn't passed away during the operation, his heart didn't give out or buckle under the strain. He finally had his heart back in the right place.

Turning his head to the side, Ben pressed his lips to the top of (Y/n)'s head as he moved his hand to cradle her neck. Holding her close as he felt like he was on cloud nine.

"He's okay, sweetheart, he's okay." Ben whispered the words against (Y/n)'s hair, feeling her nod against him, too stunned for words.

"The surgeons cut your son's heart out with no major complications and they cut through his ribs fine. When they put his heart in the right place, the ruptured vein burst again but it was repaired quickly. Now, they had to cut out two ribs so his heart wouldn't be under any strain but that shouldn't cause any problems. His heart is where it should be and all the connecting blood vessels and tissues and nerves are all intact. It went extremely well."

"Will he be okay now? He won't need any other operations in the future?" (Y/n) barely managed to get the words out with how her breaths kept hitching higher and higher in her throat.

"All being well, he should be okay. I will tell you now though, that for the time being he is on strong medication and a dose of blood thinners so the ruptured vein can heal without too much pressure. For the next week or so his heart will be fluctuating and unsteady but we expect that and it is normal and for the rest of his life he will need regular check-ups and probably medication, but we can deal with that when it happens."

"When can we go see him?" Ben rubbed his hands over his face to try and wake himself up and let himself know that this wasn't some kind of cruel dream that was going to disappear soon. This was real, this is the outcome that they had been praying for and they had finally gotten their wish after everything that had happened.

"You can see him now if you'd like, but you have to understand that he is still in a critical condition. He's had major heart surgery, he won't be conscious for a day or two yet and there are a lot of risks to his health, he's stable for now but everything can change."

"I don't care, I want to see my boy."

#ben hardy #ben x reader #ben hardy imagine #dad! ben #imagine #borhap #family ties

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journal-of-an-outlaw · 6 years ago

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Price to be Paid - Chapter 12

Treasures, Big and Small (AO3 Link)

Words: 6,140

Warnings: THAT SLOW BURN IS PAYING OFF FOLKS

Arthur was right, the first location was just south of Flatneck Station a short ways.

The conversation was easy on the ride up and turned to the old days and how things used to be. How John joined years after Arthur did, which of the girls had the stickiest fingers and which one tried to rob Hosea but ended up staying for years.

Once Arthur had the free reign to be himself, he opened up to you about his past a bit more than on previous trips. You had heard stories of robberies gone wrong or saloon visits that took three days, but those had been in the company of others. The two of you hadn’t gone out alone since the day you collected debts and it was nice to just enjoy the day with ease.

He had even brought up Mary for a moment, before shutting down and clamming up for a good five minutes.

You approached the rock described in the map. It must have been two stories tall, with ledges all over making it easy to climb. Luckily it didn’t come to that, the map detailed a small opening that had to be explored in depth to find the first of three keys.

“I can squeeze in there, though it’ll be tight. Just hold a few things for me.” You handed Arthur your heavy coat and gun belt, which left you in a thin shirt and long skirt. The opening was dark which you didn’t like, but you shimmied into the cave after jumping to catch the ledge and pull yourself up with shaking arms.

Thankfully the cave opened into a larger area that let you breathe again. You called back that you were okay, and continued in. Intricate drawings covered the walls, images that spanned back hundreds of years. Retellings of bison hunts covered the wall to your left while the right was different patterns of the local flora, smudged and elusive after all this time. You ran your hand over a particularly pretty drawing, and imagined being the one to put it there originally.

A lock box sat on a rock at the back of the cave and you approached it, ready to find the first piece.

You pulled out your kit that would help you open it and began ticking away. Finally, you got in and grabbed the round metal piece resting on a red cloth. Alone it made no sense but maybe the other clues would add up to something worthwhile. You rolled it over in your hand, the weight substantial for such a small thing. Cogs and wheels covered the base, so you thought this must be the biggest piece and the base that others would attach to. Hopefully you and Arthur would be able to find all three pieces, your curiosity was incredibly peaked.

“Coming back! I got it.” While you wiggled back out, Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. You swung your legs over the small ledge and jumped down, handing the piece to Arthur while you brushed dust off your skirt.

“Look at this, I can’t figure out how this will all go together. Can you hold it this way?” He held still while you twisted the sides left and right, trying to imagine how it would look.

Arthur couldn’t take his eyes from your face while you worked, concentration pulling your eyebrows together and your mouth making a little pucker that caused his stomach to flip.

“Let’s get going, I want to see how this plays out.” You quickly moved to Eclipse while Arthur looked over the map, trying to find the second location.

“Here! Right next to Bard’s Crossing and the river. Ain’t too far from here.”

The ride was quick, but when you arrived you weren’t the only ones. A small group of ten people were temporarily camped out where you needed to head next and didn’t look too friendly. They had built a makeshift shelter and a guard patrolling the area.

“Should we just ask to get by…?” You asked innocently. Maybe they would understand.

Arthur stared with amusement on his face. “No, darlin’, I do not think we should just waltz on in there. Look, there’s a ridge up that way, maybe the map was saying we should go up there? We can sneak up there once it’s dark and see if the second piece is hiding in that cave, but I hate to ask you to go up that high if you don’t want.”

“I’m fine with heights, don’t worry. I know it’s silly but this treasure map is the most exciting thing I’ve done as an outlaw.”

You watched Arthur cover his smile with his hand and try not to laugh. “We gotta get you on a robbery, or something if this is the most exciting thing. Don’t count for much outlaw work.”

He suggested walking a ways away so the group couldn’t see the light from your fire while you waited for the sun to set. Nothing needed to be unpacked except fire starters and you sat on the ground against a tree, relaxing for a little while before you had to start climbing and finding a real life treasure.

“You gonna fall asleep on me?” Arthur asked while he made a cup of coffee.

“Just resting my eyes is all,” you mumbled quietly in reply. Your head bobbed against the wood and you tried to focus on staying awake.

Arthur sighed and reluctantly patted his lap. You stared confused, and he blushed slightly while saying, “Don’t put your head against that tree, you’ll wake up with a crick in your neck. You can…put your head on my knee, if you want. At least it’s softer."

The blue folds of your skirt bunched up as you scooted to sit next to him, and you smoothed them out before laying down and resting your head on his knee. While a bit awkward, he was right. He was much softer than any tree would be.

As you drifted off to sleep, Arthur made sure your breathing slowed to an even pace before moving. Your hair was long and wavy and loose, and shining in the midday sun. His hands brushed a flyaway piece off your cheek, curiosity finally getting the better of him. For months he had watched it bounce around or be tied up on top of your head and longed to run his fingers through to see if it matched the softness of your heart, and he was not disappointed. He moved a few more bits before finding a gentle rhythm of running his whole hand down your head over and over while you slept.

Truth be told he was buzzing inside with conflict and sheer happiness.

While his left hand blissfully ran through your hair, his right pulled out his journal and he started to sketch, the scene before him too compelling not to immortalize it. Drawings of you littered the pages of his journal. Sometimes it was nothing more than your eyes or your profile, but Arthur loved taking reminders of you with him like a secret he dared not breathe about.

Little moments he never had to share with anyone but himself.

A half hour after sunset, Arthur shook you gently.

“YN? You ready to get going?” You awoke from a dreamless sleep and rubbed your eyes, the chirping of evening birds bringing you back to the present.

“Hope you weren’t too uncomfortable, Arthur. I apparently needed that.”

He patted your shoulder and agreed he was fine, then headed back to the horses.

With the light from the sun all but gone you had to rely on his sense of direction to find the small camp again. The folk staying in the area had left. It hadn’t been a great place to defend and the two wagons full of people had dropped plenty of evidence behind of their stay. Rusty cans and indents in the dirt showed they had headed south, then followed the road until the trail was no longer visible. It was strange to stand in someone’s old home and reminded you of Horseshoe Overlook. You wondered what it looked like in the autumn, and if someone else had taken up residence in the place you once slept and called home. It left you feeling a little bit hollow and melancholy.

Standing at the bottom of the cliff, Arthur called you over.

“YN! Think you can jump that high?” He craned his head back to see up.

“Arthur that ledge is higher than you, so no, I do not think so. Might be able to jump down to it though, the top ain’t too far around if I hike up.”

You both agreed that you would walk and jump down in search of piece number two of the wild chase Sean had sent you on. It took nearly ten minutes to hike and you were out of breath by the time you arrived, but tried to hide it from Arthur who was still standing down below.

“This about right?” It was sure hard to see with the little light left, so you lit your lantern and leaned over the edge. Standing above the cave entrance, you sat down and moved as close as you dared to the edge. Your toes were a good foot above the ledge, and Arthur nodded.

There was a terrifying moment as you fell through the air before landing, but you stood up and turned to face the darkness with your lantern held up high.

This was different than the last cave. Filled with twists and turns, the sounds from the forest were quickly replaced with drips of water, and a strange fluttering that echoed and caused panic to strike through your bones. But you keep pressing on. Hopefully this cave was smaller than it felt. Eventually you reached a flat wall with three holes. One had a painted red X across the edges so you ignored that. One had a blue circle around it, and the other was untouched. You cursed out loud as you remembered Arthur had the map tucked neatly into his journal and you had no easy way to reach him, so any hints or clues lay back in the small clearing. You debated for a moment which option to choose, and finally settled on the painted blue circle. A sigh of relief passed your lips as you pulled out a lock box. The cold metal was at least familiar and you popped the lid with no trouble, grabbing the second piece from inside.

You turned to leave after placing the box back into the hole, but something made you turn back and face the third, untouched spot. Curiosity got the better of you and you hesitantly stuck your fingers in inch by inch to see what lay inside.

At first, there was nothing. Then, something spindly and wiry stroked the back of your hand, and you yanked it back to make sure whatever it was hadn’t stayed on. Panic pumped through your heart and you screamed, running back towards the entrance and away from whatever hell demons resided in that wall.

Arthur bolted up from his spot on the ground when he heard your voice rip from the cave, and was on his way towards it when you came bolting out and nearly toppled over the edge. You were shaking your right hand over and over, with your eyes wild and desperate to find an escape. The drop wasn’t too far, but more than you should have managed by sitting down and pushing yourself forward.

“What in the hell was that? Are you alright?” Your eyes were huge as you stared, still visibly shaken by whatever happened in the cave.

“I got it…but there was something else in there, too.”

“What was it, YN?” His voice cut the night air hard and deep, afraid someone had met you inside and intended to cause harm.

Checking to make sure the back of your hand was clean, you took a deep breath and tried to calm yourself. Your voice came out in a shaky breath and you shuttered at the memory.

“Spiders.”

You had never seen Arthur laugh harder.

At first he was bewildered, but that only lasted a few seconds before what you said really clicked into place and shocked him into a fit. He was doubled over, grabbing his knees for support. You watched him wipe tears from his eyes thinking bandits or the like were responsible for your terror. But no, just little bitty spiders.

“That funny to you, Mr. Morgan?” Your arms were crossed and you looked down with fake resentment.

“Oh, we’re back to that now are we,” he chuckled again, still not able to stand up straight. Laughter still rippled its way out as he repeated the scene in his mind.

“They were horrifying! Stop laughing. Ugh they crawled up my hands, they must have been everywhere. I nearly dropped the piece on the way out, and I could have died! Arthur, I said stop laughing.” You shoved him, unable to contain your own hysterics now too. The two of you enjoyed the moment, realizing that nothing was truly the matter. Eventually the laughter died away and you pulled out the second piece, motioning to Arthur to hand you the first.

A loud click rang out when the pieces finally went together. “Only one more!” The excitement overtook you and you danced a little with the key in front of you. Arthur laughed once more, then snapped open the map to have a look.

“Celebrating might have to wait until tomorrow, last place is a bit of a ride. Heartland Oil Fields, least half a day away and it’s already night.”

“Fine, fine. Where should we camp tonight then?”

Arthur rubbed his chin in contemplation. “Let’s get closer to the train tracks, then we can follow them up North and over to get to them oil fields.”

You agreed and mounted up on Eclipse. Zeus followed as you took the lead out of the area and headed back to the trail.

People were friendly here. Not that you passed many this late at night, but they all smiled, tipped their heads, and said hello while riding by. A rumor about the O’Driscolls being in the area wasn’t proving itself true that night as no trouble came across you on the road.

“Let’s head up here, turn left YN.” Another small clearing greeted you as a makeshift camp.

There was no fire set up this time as it was late, and Arthur was exhausted. He unrolled his sleeping mat and started snoring before you were even adjusted sitting on the ground. The short hour you had gotten earlier made you feel great, and sleep was the last thing on your mind.

The connected key pieces sat together in front of you, but you wanted to know more. The map was tucked away in Arthur’s journal, and you knew he would hate you for snooping but you only wanted the additional page.

“Arthur?”

His lack of response was all you needed to tip toe over to Zeus and rifle through his saddle bags to grab to book.

“Gottcha,” the journal fell open to the page holding the map, but something else caught your attention.

“Is that…?” The angle from which the art was drawn showed a face turned away, and long wavy hair like yours. Just like how you were laying in Arthur’s lap this afternoon.

“Oh my god…” you breathed while flipping back a few pages. Images of you were everywhere. Arthur could somehow capture your eyes, how happiness spread across your face, and even moments of intense concentration with his pencil drawings. And you loved it.

So everything Charles had said was true. Arthur did harbor feelings for you, and you finally had the proof that validated your own heart too. Holding the journal to your chest, you walked back to your spot on the ground next to your lantern, and slowly flipped through page after page. Reading his innermost thoughts was too invasive, so you only looked at the drawings to get to know this man better. He was so much more than the person you thought you knew, and all of it was contained on the pages before you.

A particular drawing caught your eye, and you ran a light finger down the cheek. Well, your cheek. Somehow you didn’t know the woman in these pictures, so much had changed with you over the past few months.

Arthur muttered something softly, and you panicked and sat on the journal to hide it out of sight. He was just sleep talking, and you let out a sigh of relief. Time to put what didn’t belong to you back, and go about like nothing happened.

As you fell asleep a warm ball of hope and happiness settled on your chest.

The next morning you arrived at the oil fields earlier than you had expected. Arthur wanted to get back to camp soon so he woke you just as the sun crossed the horizon. You had slept little the night before, thoughts of the man beside you keeping you awake.

“Want me to head inside this time? You look real tired, YN.” You nodded and stood above the ladder that descended into darkness. The pair of you had been contemplating where this damn map was leading and the only logical place left was the drop down. After your spider experience yesterday you were secretly relieved not to be leaving the sunlight anytime soon.

Leaning against the wooden legs of the oil rig, you watched the wind ripple across the plains ahead of you. Bursts of dry plants stuck out of the dirt, and small animals scattered around in packs. Every once in awhile a chill bit the exposed skin of your forearms and neck, making you shiver and pull on your sleeves. What was taking him so long.

“Arthur? You alright down there?” A thud and a string of curses was your reply. After checking that the horses were tied up well, you began down the ladder to join him.

“I got this, don’t need you coming to save me.” His voice was gruff and he hastily dropped his hand from the top of his head. From the short height of the cave it looked like he had stood up too fast when you called out and smacked the back of his head. The grumpy look on his face didn’t last long though as you neared to him.

“Is it down here? Been long enough I could have solved it and left for camp by now.”

Arthur took a deep breath and his shoulders bobbed. “I can’t find the damn box. Should be somewhere over to the left, but I looked and ain’t nothing there.”

You held the map closer to the lamp and chuckled when you realized he was holding it wrong. “Arthur. Turn it this way, so we should be looking right.” You pointed and he headed that way silently, the frustration etched into his face. He held the lamp up over your head, but there was little space for the two of you to fit.

“I’ll go, just keep that light up.” His arm held steady, and you found the box. The top didn’t open as easy this time, so you handed it back for Arthur to try. He studied it for a moment while you took the lantern and allowed him to try.

“Ain’t so hard, just gotta-” the top flew up and spooked you both. The final piece was inside, and he handed it to you for safekeeping until you could get back to the surface.

“Please, YN, get up that ladder so I can leave this blasted hole in the ground.” You giggled and started climbing upwards into the open air, and breathed a sigh of relief. You’ve always had a weird fear of small, dark spaces.

“Arthur…this one doesn’t fit. Look here, the other two clicked in so easy but I can’t find how to connect them all. Are we missing one other part?” You took the map out and compared the sections to what the whole should look like. “Something must have broken off…Damn.”

A round green orb was missing. In fact, it was the most important piece, the one you would look through while standing in the oil field to find the treasure stash. It had special markings on it that was supposed to reveal the spot after all three pieces crossed in front of it, connecting to create a web like structure in your hands.

“Maybe we can use something else?” You started looking around to see if anything was dropped, but no luck.

“This drawing makes it look like a marble.” Arthur pulled his satchel around and produced just what you were looking for. A green marble.

“Forgot I was playing with Jack last week and he hid these in my bag. Think this’ll work?” He placed the small shape into the socket, and it clicked into place. Excitement filled your chest as you held it up and looked through the finally assembled key.

“Oh, this is stunning! Whoever put this together must have been incredibly intelligent, look at how it plays off the rays of the sun and how the clouds are…should we wait until there’s a certain coverage?”

Arthur grunted in reply and took the object out of your hands. “Darlin’, we do any more waiting and I am gonna starve to death. Let’s find whatever treasure Sean had built up in his mind and head back to camp. I ain’t really in the mood for hunting.”

You took it back to locate the place you would be hiking up to. The hill was too steep for the horses so you two would be climbing up on foot, hopefully not taking long to locate something you had no clue was even still there. The green marble shone in the sunlight, and the circles of metal lined up when you stared at the peak of the rock. “Arthur! Up there, that’s where we gotta look. It matches the crazy designs on the back of the map.”

Once turned over, swirls and circles covered the back of the paper around a cut of rocks shaped like a face. The nose was broken, and in the crack was the red line indicating the location of the treasure.

It took nearly half an hour to climb up that damn rock. At first it seemed easy and you entered the task full of false confidence and expectations. But those were built on a weak foundation and fell apart as soon as you got more than a story off the ground. You were open and exposed, climbing the side of a mountain with a man who was clearly more comfortable with this kind of thing than you were, and he watched you sweat and curse every time your foot misstepped and you imagined yourself careening down to your death.

“I, I don’t know how much higher I can go, Mr. Morgan,” you panted up at him. He looked down surprised. “You alright down there, Ms. Moore?”

The rocks around you were suddenly slippery and your palms felt like the surface was too smooth to get a good grip on. “You continue on up, I am not going anywhere but down from here.” Arthur offered you a hand up but you swatted it away quickly, afraid to have your hands away from the stone for more time than necessary.

“Please, just hurry.”

He chuckled and climbed up the last bit. “Sure is a pretty view up here, YN!” Arthur rested his hands on his hips and drank in the view before him. You silently cursed whoever made that map and buried treasure up in the middle of a cliff. Albeit, they did pick a good place if they didn’t want anyone finding it.

“Shame. I found the box, I’ll bring it down to open though,” Arthur made quick work of climbing down to you and found you pale faced and pressed hard against the wall.

“I don’t think I can move. It’s terrifying.”

The next step down was luckily a ledge, and Arthur jumped down. “Here, if you need to jump I’ll catch you.” His hands were held up towards you and judging by the size of his arms he would have no problems if you actually jumped.

“Jesus Christ.” Your boot scooted closer to the edge. Right before you moved to him you saw how high you truly were, and felt a bit dizzy. Your legs gave out and you fell right into Arthur’s open arms.

He caught you easily, of course, and once you regained your balance you had no desire to release his jacket from your grip. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

He chuckled lightly. “C’mon, girl. You telling me a little cliff is going to do you in? You can do this, just focus for a moment. Look at me, focus.” Gently, he placed a hand on either side of your face and locked his eyes with yours. You concentrated on his chest rising and falling, breathing along in time to settle your nerves.

Once you felt better, you had no desire to pull back from how close you were standing with Arthur. His breath fell gently on your cheeks, and his eyes were such a pretty shade of blue when contrasted against the sky behind him. You smiled up at the outlaw, and his eyes crinkled around the edges in a gently response.

“You okay there?” It came out as a whisper, Arthur still not breaking your gaze.

You nodded, but still clutched him tight incase you had to look back down at the journey ahead. Arthur’s mouth was parted just slightly and was incredibly inviting, but you knew if you kissed him you definitely would never make it down this cliff. Finally you pulled back and began the descent to your waiting horses.

The last jump to the ground was short, and when you landed your skirt poofed around you. Arthur landed next to you and placed his hand on your back leading you towards Eclipse and Zeus who lifted their heads as you walked up.

“I’ve never been so happy to be back on the ground, thank you Arthur.”

He tipped his head, and reached into his bag. “Let’s find out what we won, eh?”

This time the box was easy. Wasn’t even locked, and after all you went through to get it you were thoroughly relieved. Just a plain, rusted lock box that opened easily.

“Woah…”

Three gold bars stared up at you from inside. Arthur’s eyebrows shot up higher than you’ve ever seen. “That is a lot of money. At least 500 each.” An awkward beat passed as you mentally debated what to do with the bars. Keep them? Split it?

“Here. You take one, I’ll take one, then the gang gets the third. I almost care that Sean gets one but he did nothing except try to lose this map instead of chase anything. I would be careful about cashing that in, YN, maybe hide it at camp for awhile.”

You gingerly lifted your gold bar out of the box. It was beautiful, but what it meant for you was even more so. If there was ever a time that you needed to run, you were set for a good while without having to do much. You stood up on your tip toes and laid a kiss on Arthur’s cheek while muttering a quiet thank you. A blush ran up his face and he mounted Zeus with a smile on his face.

“Now, please. Can we get back to camp?”

The pair of you arrived in the late afternoon to the sleepy homestead. Kieran was on guard duty and waved you both in while holding a shotgun. You could see Hosea leaning in and discussing something with Charles and Karen that looked serious, but they didn’t see as you walked towards the stew.

You scooped a bowl for Arthur first as he complained the whole ride back about how hungry he was, and he gratefully took it and found seating near the fire. The heat from the midday had worn off and you grabbed a shawl from your tent, wrapping it loosely around your shoulders. It was an old one of Abigail’s that she had given you as a gift.

“YN! Glad you’re back, I’ve got a plan I want you in on.”

Hosea called to you from the table and you walked over to the trio. Charles had a paper in front of him and Karen was keenly looking at the drawings.

‘How would you like to head out on a mission with us?” Karen smiled up and patted the seat next to her for you to sit.

“There’s going to be something called a Governor’s Ball in Rhodes this month at the town hall. Dancing, drinking, schmoozing with the highest of society that this shit hole has to offer. Should be an easy haul and an excuse to get all dressed up.” Hosea’s eyes were lit up while he talked, the full plan laying out easily in his mind.

“I heard about it from a stable boy in town jealous his employer is going, but he isn’t. Anyways, I’ll need you as a distraction point woman and for pickpocketing those lame bastards dry. I still need to run it by Dutch but would you be interested?”

“Of course!” You were ecstatic at being included in a real mission with the gang. It wasn’t a train robbery but hell, being able to produce some kind of contribution would be a win. “Those are some things I’d be good at. Used to go to hall dances all the time back home.”

Hosea nodded at you approvingly. “Good. Should be easy. Won’t need more than those of us here, too many and we attract a lot of attention. Charles will be manning the wagon, and we can pose as a little family of three, not that you and Karen bear much resemblance, but I’m sure these backwards farm folk won’t ask too many questions. I can spin a sob story on the spot that will make them leave us be.”

He chuckled, and Charles even managed a small smile at the thought of Hosea making those bastards sad.

“We’ll iron out the details soon. Just wanted to make sure it was something you were up for.”

An excitement hummed through your body at the thought of wearing a nice dress and heading to a dance, and getting to rob some fools on the way. It’s too bad it was a full week away.

“You sure you want to take these folk with you, Hosea?” Arthur had crossed the camp and was standing behind Hosea’s chair, his eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Must be a few of us more suited for that.”

All four of you exchanged a look, then turned to Arthur. “What do you mean? We got some fine people-”

Arthur laughed and cut him off. “Oh, I know you’re fine folk. That ain’t the problem. Just don’t know if you all can be trusted to pull this off. Have to see what Dutch approves, won’t we?”

Charles scoffed and stood to leave. He and Arthur had always been close so this was an awkward conversation and a low blow. “Don’t know what’s in you today, Morgan. Leave it alone.”

Hosea rolled his plans up slowly, thinking his next move through. The man was calculating, but never cold in his actions towards Arthur who he considered a son.

“Would you like to be included, Arthur?” Hosea’s tone was condescending as if he were speaking to Jack, not a fully grown man.

“No, that ain’t -”

“Should I have run this by you before uttering a word to anyone else?”

Hosea stood tall, and what he lacked in height he made up for in his aura. He may not have been the most loved by Dutch, but he was his most trusted. And in this camp that held a lot of weight to it. Arthur shirked back and rubbed his neck.

“Hosea, I just meant the women.” You sucked in a breath as if you had been hit. He didn’t trust the two of you for a simple robbery mission?

“What in the hell does that mean, Mr. Morgan?” Karen was standing now, too. Her eyes were full of anger and she glared hard at Arthur, unafraid of him in the slightest. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, and suddenly it clicked.

“Karen, it isn’t you he’s worried about.” Your voice was quiet, but everyone turned to look as you finished. “It’s me. He’s afraid I’ll find a way to mess this up.”

You stood and placed your hands on the table. “Mr. Morgan, can I talk to you? In private?”

For the past two days, Arthur had been the only person you had been around. Maybe he got fed up with you and never said a word. Maybe he really didn’t trust you after all of these months. Or maybe he just didn’t think you could pull off a robbery. Either way the dice fell it made you boil with anger that he said something in front of the others who clearly thought you were up to the job.

Arthur followed you back behind one of the wagons. As soon as you were both out of sight of the others, he was met with the full force of anger that was harbored inside of you.

“What in the hell, Arthur, was that.”

The speech that passed your lips was pointed and cold. You were mad, and you wanted answers.

He at least had the audacity to look embarrassed while he spoke. “I don’t know, YN, I just don’t want anything bad to go down. I’ve seen what happens when folks are inexperienced.”

“You don’t know that I’ll mess it up, Arthur! It could be great, I thought you woulda trusted me by now. I go hunting, I pickpocket folks, hell, Sean and I even had that side of the road scheme for a few weeks!” You were exacerbated as you blew air through your lips and ran a hand through your hair.

“Why are you really so hard on this plan?”

A few moments passed as he thought. Finally he replied, “Because.”

You snorted. “Because! That ain’t no answer. Look at me, Arthur.” You moved closer to him to see his reaction, and his eyes locked onto yours as you continued. “I may not be the greatest outlaw, but I’m good. I’m gonna ask you once more now, why are you so set on me not going?”

“Jesus, YN. Because -”

In one movement, Arthur pressed you back against the wagon, his lips meeting your for the first time. Utter shock ran through you, but was quickly replaced with elation that started warm in your belly. His hands were in your hair and on your waist while you pulled him in closer by his shirt, and he eagerly responded.

The world swirled around you, but Arthur was the anchor in a storm you didn’t see coming.

His mouth moved against yours gently. It was a feeling you could live in forever, but Arthur eventually pulled back slowly. His face was still close, and you could see his dilated pupils and flush ridden cheeks.

“Hope I didn’t, uh, overstep anything there.” Arthur’s voice was thick and low.

“No, Arthur. Think I’ve been hoping you’d do that for awhile.”

He chuckled and twirled a lock of your hair around his finger. “Me too. And I wasn’t worried about you messing anything up, YN. I was worried you might get hurt if something goes wrong.”

“It ain’t even a high stakes mission, you fool. No trouble around.” You laughed and slapped his chest lightly, your high still buzzing through you. “I didn’t know you truly cared, Mr. Morgan.”

“‘Course I care, I’m just not too good at showing it.”

Before reluctantly separating, Arthur kissed you gently twice more as if he couldn’t get enough of what had been up until now had been simply a fantasy. As far as camp went there was little privacy and you were worried someone would come around the corner and see what was going on.

Arthur left first. But before he got too far, he turned back and called one last thing to you.

“You may not find any trouble on that run with Hosea, but dammit, woman, there’ll be trouble for sure if you call me Mr. Morgan again.”

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #price to be paid #the price to be paid #fanfic #fanfiction #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #writing #sean maguire #sean macguire #red dead fanfic #I LOVE WRITING THIS #I appreciate feedback #let me know what you think #:)#rdr2 fanfic

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missweber · 7 years ago

Text

'A' is for...

On AO3

Summary:

The night of the last game of the Stanley Cup Finals, Kent learns that 'A' can stand for a lot of things. These include, but are not limited to:

Alternate. Ally. Asshole. Assumptions. Alone.

I've seen a lot of varied and interesting takes on Kent since the last update dropped, and the Kent you see here is just one of several possible headcanons I have for the guy. Basically, he's still pretty messed up, but has taken a few first steps towards getting better. YKentMV, of course.

NBC was about to cut to a pre-game interview with Bob, and Kent was still on the fence about whether or not it was a bad idea to watch when Swoops pulled him away from the TVs (sloshing beer all over the place as he went) and asked him what it would be like if Jack won the Cup tonight.

"And I want your real answer, Parser, not whatever line of BS you're already planning to feed the media when they ask, 'cause you know they're gonna ask. I'm your A, buddy. It's my job as alternate to look out for you, eh?"

"Huh. I thought that A on your sweater stood for 'asshole of the useless variety'," Kent retorted with a wink and a grin. In practice, the Aces' alternates didn't actually do much aside from planning off-season parties and cookouts. Not that Kent did much more than that as captain. He made a note to feel guilty about that later. Or not.

Swoops stared at him for a while, and he might have been having a little trouble focusing. He was definitely having to lean on a nearby slot machine for support.

"You still with me, Swoops? What is it?"

"What it is, is that it's way too early for me to be drunk enough I can't think of something 'C' stands for that won't make you want to knock my teeth down my throat," Swoops said. "Do me a solid and pretend I said something out-of-this-world clever that wouldn't have HR crawling up my ass again, okay?"

Kent laughed bitterly, knowing that most of the guys would have gleefully unleashed the homophobia or misogyny without a second or even a first thought. He gave Swoops a friendly shove. "Sure. You're a good egg, Swoops."

"Damn straight, I am. I'm a fucking brilliant - what'd that stupid inclusion video call it? Ally? Yeah, ally. Now are you going to answer my question, or what?"

"It'll be a good thing," Kent said after thinking it over for a bit.

Swoops gave him a dubious look over the rim of his glass, and even though he didn't press for an explanation, Kent gave him one. Well, part of one.

"If he wins, we'll be back on even ground, y'know? If the Falcs win, there's no way Ja... Zimms won't get the Smythe, the way he's been playing. Plus, it's pretty much a given he's gonna get the Calder, and Ovie only beat him out for the Richard by that one goal that shoulda been called off anyway."

Swoops groaned and banged his head (gently, of course) on the slot machine. "Jesus, Parser. Do not tell me you're going to try to hook up with that douchebag again. Just... no. The third time is not the charm here."

Kent didn't blame Swoops for reacting like that, even if the exaggerated shudder at the 'no' was kind of rude. He'd drunkenly outed himself to Swoops after the first Samwell visit, and Swoops was the only person who even had half a clue about how bad things got after that second visit. As far as Swoops was concerned, Zimms was Bad News.

"I miss my friend," Kent said. It was true. He did. Zimms got him in ways no one else ever had. He had felt safe around Zimms in ways he still didn't with anyone else, not even Swoops. "And believe it or not, I want my friend back."

"You've got friends here," Swoops grumped. "Are we not good enough for you or something?"

Kent laughed and clapped him on the shoulder before guiding him back towards the bar. "Sorry, pal, but you're a second liner all the way. Now come on or we're gonna miss the puck drop. Also, do yourself and everyone else here a favor and switch to water until second period at least. You're a tragedy waiting to happen."

That seemed to end the conversation as far as Swoops was concerned, but Kent's mind kept rolling with it even though he wished it wouldn't. He had finally accepted after that disastrous second Samwell visit (plus way too many 'healthy' scratches and finally caving to management's threats and seeing a therapist) that he couldn't make Zimms get back together with him, or be friends with him, or even be willing to talk to him again. Recently, he had even taken a few baby steps towards acknowledging the bitter truth that trying to get Zimms back may have instead fucked things up past the point of repair.

But was it a crime to want? To hope? To daydream?

There were so many ways things could go down, if Jack won the Cup.

He could call Jack to congratulate him and Jack would actually answer the phone. Or, Jack might finally feel like he'd proven himself and be the one to call Kent. Maybe they could meet up at the NHL Awards. Maybe they could apologize to each other and everything would be okay. Maybe they could be friends again. Maybe they could be more. Maybe things would start off slowly, or maybe - now that they could finally meet as equals again - it would all come back in a heated rush.

Or maybe Scraps (of all people - what the hell?) would sit next to him in a shitty sports bar and nervously pass him a phone so Kent could sit there in a very public place and watch Jack kiss some other guy in front of the whole fucking world.

Kent could have sworn he was watching from somewhere over his own shoulder as Jack pulled a blond kid into his arms. They kissed, and it was so much like what Kent imagined, what he had dreamed over the years, that the blond in Jack's arms became a reflection made solid and it was him Jack was kissing and all his wishes and dreams and fears had been captured and were being broadcast in full color even though he had tried and tried to keep it all hidden. Everyone was going to know about him, it was out, he couldn't stop it...

...and then a dozen Falconers swarmed the duo, with St. Martin hauling Jack into a hug and Robinson ruffling the blond kid's (not Kent's) hair and Mashkov damn near causing a wipeout because he apparently forgot he was on crutches and tried to throw the kid over his shoulder. And then all the WAGs were there, and the kid scooped up someone's toddler like he'd done it a million times before.

They knew. They knew, and they didn't care. They knew, and fuck, did that mean they knew about Kent? Did everyone know? Kent was getting lightheaded and he knew he should breathe but he couldn't, he couldn't move. He couldn't.

"Oooh, so he's gay or whatever? Jesus Christ."

Carl. Of course. Shit, shit, shit, of all the people to figure out Kent's secret, it had to be that sub-literate douchebro, but wait, no, he was talking about Jack? Yeah, he was talking about Jack and somehow that made it a million times worse. Swoops - Kent was pretty sure it was Swoops - said come on, Carl, but he was half-laughing as he said it, and it only made Carl double down and make some crack about the Cup parade.

It wasn't funny, but everyone laughed. Everyone. Everyone but Kent, and Scraps, who had gone kind of green and stuck out his hand for his phone. Swoops changed the subject by goading Carl to talk about his favorite subject (Carl), but he was still laughing like a hyena along with everyone else at that fucking stupid parade joke.

Kent shoved the phone back at Scraps and tried not to think about why the guy looked like he wanted to puke. He was probably going to wipe his phone down with hand sanitizer or something to get rid of the gay cooties from the video.

Kent stood up abruptly. "I gotta use the little boys' room," he said, half-hoping it would lure Carl into making another crack, one that would give Kent a halfway decent excuse to bash his empty skull in with a bar stool, but no one said anything as he stalked off.

He strode straight past the men's room and out the back exit. He wanted to cool off and take a deep breath, but the temps were still in the upper eighties and the exit emptied out right next to a very full and very ripe dumpster.

"Shit!" He kicked at a beer bottle that had fallen out of the recycling bin. It shattered where it landed several yards away but the noise from the Strip ate up his shout and the sound of broken glass. He picked up another bottle. This one, he threw. "SHIT!"

"Uh, Parser?" came a tentative and not very welcome voice.

"Go back inside, Jeff," Kent said as calmly as he could make himself. He waited for a count of ten breaths, but when he looked over his shoulder, Swoops was standing there, shuffling awkwardly in place and looking like he wished he was either a lot more sober or a lot more drunk.

"Y'know, the restrooms are inside, but if you were planning to piss on Carly's tires, I won't stop you. Hell, I think half the guys on the team wouldn't lift a finger to stop you."

Kent looked away and started walking. His car was only a block away. "Right. Just like they didn't lift a finger to stop Carl when he decided to be an ignorant asswipe. Thanks, by the way."

"Aw, c'mon, Parser!" Swoops sounded closer than before, which meant that he was following Kent, which, no thank you. "He was just being an idiot, like usual."

An idiot about something that Swoops knew damn well was a big sore spot for Kent. He'd seen how big of a sore spot it was. Twice.

"And everyone laughed at him - like usual. Including the guy who's my best friend on the team." He didn't stop walking. "I'll tell you what, that was a fan-fucking-tastic way to end this shit-show of an evening!"

And this was where Swoops should apologize or maybe just say whoops! and he'd try to do better next time. But no, that was not the kind of night Kent was having.

"What? So I laughed. Big deal! It just sort of happened, and it would have been a way bigger deal not to, you know?"

Kent stopped short and wheeled around, forcing Swoops to stumble back a step. "Pro tip - 'Not funny, dude' is a great phrase. Useful in hundreds of different situations. Learn it," he said with a jab at Swoops' sternum.

Swoops batted Kent's hand away, and looked him up and down with a curled lip. "Jeez. Lighten the fuck up, Parser. Like he said, Carly didn't actually say anything wrong before I tried to stop him the first time. And hey, at least I was eventually able to get him talking about something else, right?"

Of course Swoops wouldn't think it was wrong. It wasn't like Carly had said anything that was out and out false or blatantly homophobic, but even just thinking about trying to explain why it was wrong was profoundly exhausting.

Zimms would get it. But Zimms wasn't here.

"Yeah. Great. You made a passing attempt at being a decent human being. Gold star for Swoops!" he cheered, doing jazz hands for that little extra touch. "Happy?"

Swoops' face twisted into something ugly, but then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Look... I don't know what you want from me, Parser. I know the whole Zimmermann thing has got to suck big, hairy balls, but what - did you want me to tell Carly the whole sob story so he can walk on eggshells around you? I thought the whole point is that you want to keep this shit on the down-low!"

"What I want is to know that you've got my back! We're on the same god-damned team! You got the A this year, which means that you and me," he said, gesturing back and forth between the two of them and not doing a very good job of keeping his hand from shaking, "we're a team within a team! You're supposed to be on my side, genius! Not the side of some third-rate bench-warmer. Most of all, you're my friend, not Carl's, and what I want is for you to understand why I'm pissed off that you laughed at a joke he made at my expense!"

Swoops flung his arms wide. "He doesn't know you're into guys! He doesn't know you had a thing with Zimmermann! What I keep trying to tell you, dumbass, is that the whole point is that no one on the team knows!"

It was strange, how when anger spiked to a certain point, it turned into a calm, implacable clarity.

"Yeah, Swoops, you're right. But you know. And you don't fucking get it."

The calm was starting to sizzle away, and Kent had finally figured himself out well enough to know that if he didn't get the hell out of there right now, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from saying things that would leave scars - and not just on whatever poor bastard he flayed with his words.

"Screw it. I'm done," he said before he or Swoops could say anything they'd regret. He turned and walked off. "See you later. If we're lucky, we'll both go home, get blackout drunk, and forget about this whole clusterfuck."

He was not at all surprised to hear protests and footsteps stumbling up behind him.

Kent lifted his hand to knock away the shoulder-clasp he knew was coming. "Do not fucking touch me, asshole!"

"Jesus! What the hell is wrong with you, Parser?"

Kent said nothing. He just kept walking.

What was wrong with him was that he missed Jack. It wasn't just that he missed the man he still loved (and who clearly no longer loved him). It wasn't even that he missed his friend.

What he missed was having someone around who actually got it. Someone who knew what it meant to have his back. Someone who understood that 'ally' was something you did and not just a label you slapped on like a letter on a jersey because you watched a stupid video.

He missed not feeling so fucking alone all the time.

"Screw you, Parse!"

Kent was pretty sure Swoops was flipping him off, but he didn't look back to confirm. He was pretty sure he knew how this would play out based on past experience. Neither of them would get all the way to blackout drunk, but they'd both wake up tomorrow with miserable hangovers. Swoops would come by around eleven with a jug of his secret-recipe Bloody Marys (the secret being extra vodka and half a bottle of Frank's Hot Sauce) and offer a hangdog 'we good, buddy?' by way of apology.

And Kent would say they were good, and he would pretend that they were, because for all that it was exhausting how much Swoops didn't get it, he was a good friend more often than he was a shitty one, and right now it looked like that was the best Kent could hope for.

He wanted better than that, though. Especially tonight, because he knew that this thing with Jack was like that slap shot that clipped his ankle a couple of years back. When it first hit, he knew it hurt like a motherfucker, but all it was: knowledge. The actual pain came after. Right now, the pain was like a boulder balanced on the edge of a cliff, and any second now it would come crashing down on him and he wouldn't be able to stop it.

Most all, though, he was tired. God, he was tired.

He jolted into panicked wakefulness, however, when he rounded the corner. Someone was lurking with intent right by his car. A someone who had a good five inches and forty pounds on him. It didn't take long for Kent to recognize who it was.

"Scraps? What the hell are you doing out here, man? You need a ride or something?" Kent thought he sounded reasonably calm, but who knew what kind of speculation shitbags like Carl had indulged in after Kent left? What were the odds that someone had remembered the rumors about him and Jack and put two and two together, and shit, maybe he shouldn't have left after all...

"I - " Scraps started, and then his mouth snapped shut with an audible clack. Kent stopped a few feet away, not wanting to get any closer until he had a good feel for what was going on and how quickly he might need to get away.

Scraps was an old-school enforcer, the kind of guy there was less of in the league the more there were guys like Kent. He was a tough guy's tough guy, and he wasn't known so much for his skill as he was for having taken a skate to the face during a pile-up and then trying to get back on the ice as soon as the stitches were in. This season, he had been suspended twice. Two games for boarding that speedy little dude on the Flames and four games for cross-checking the Aeros' captain hard enough to break two ribs. He was the guy people pointed at first when they talked about 'typical Aces hockey.'

So why, Kent wondered, as he started walking towards the car again, was Scraps the one who looked like he was about to piss himself? Scraps was five or so years older than Kent, but right now it would have been easier to believe it was the other way around.

"I wanted to talk to you," Scraps mumbled, looking like he was trying to make eye contact with the rats in the gutter. "Sorry if I, uh..."

"No, no... It's okay, man." Kent slowed his approach, speaking softly and telegraphing his moves the way he did when Kit was in one of her twitchier moods. "It's okay."

He didn't really think it was, but Scraps wasn't shaking quite as badly as he had been a second ago.

"It's just, um, you got real upset when I showed you that video."

"Right," Kent said slowly, not sure where all this was going. Scraps still wasn't looking him in the eye, and he kept scuffing his hand over his head and swallowing hard every few seconds.

"But you also got real upset when Carly started joking about your friend. I mean, he's your friend, right? Zimmermann?"

"Yeah. We haven't seen each other in a while, but yeah." No, it wasn't exactly true, but this wasn't the time or place to get into all the gory details.

Scraps was slouched over and hugging himself, looking more like a kid who had just come up from Juniors than someone who had played his first NHL game while Kent was still a bantam.

"And it doesn't... I mean, you're okay with him kissing another guy?"

No, Kent really, really wasn't okay with Jack kissing another guy, but not for the same reason Scraps thought he wouldn't be okay.

"Zimms can date whoever the hell he wants," he snapped, daring Scraps to challenge him. What was Scraps getting at with all this, anyway? Screw it. He was pissed, and he was going to say what he wished Swoops had said to Carl Fucking Chadwick back at the bar. "And even though Falcs management is probably going to hand his ass to him tomorrow, he's got the same damn right to kiss his boyfriend after winning the Cup that St. Martin and Robinson had to kiss their wives."

And if you think any different, then go take a long walk off a short pier, you pea-brained troglodyte.

He was expecting to get some kind of stammering, insincere protest that still managed to be eighteen different kinds of offensive.

What he got instead was one of the league's most notorious goons sitting down hard on the hood of Kent's brand new car, covering his eyes with one hand and flat out sobbing.

What the hell?

Oh.

Heart rabbiting in his throat, Kent closed the remaining distance between him and Scraps in a flash. "Hey, hey... it's okay, man. It's gonna be okay. I promise. Now get off the car, because you're wearing jeans and the rivets will fuck up the paint. And can you please stop crying, because you're freaking me the fuck out."

What the fuck was he was supposed to do next? Should he ask Scraps to confirm what Kent thought? Or maybe he should chime in with a supportive 'me too!' (and yup, there was the automatic spike of nausea and panic at the thought). Or maybe he should just try to find some tissues somewhere because Scraps was wiping away snot with the back of his hand and that was just gross. And maybe he should stop trying to take refuge in wisecracks, even ones that didn't leave the privacy of his own head.

Or maybe he should just do what he wished Swoops had had the fucking courage and decency to do.

"I'm sorry, Scraps," he said, and the confused look he got from the other man was just heartbreaking. Whatever Scraps had been expecting from Kent, an apology certainly wasn't it. "They should give me the A instead of the C, because everyone knows A stands for 'asshole.'"

"No you're not," Scraps mumbled. "An asshole, I mean. I thought, well, I hoped you'd be okay with this. With me."

Kent took a deep breath, because bursting into hysterical, nervous breakdown-style laughter wouldn't help anyone right now.

"Someone should have... I mean I should have told Carl to shut his fucking mouth." And maybe he should have, but Kent had assumed it was just him in the cross-hairs, and why the hell would he want to draw attention to himself when it was clear that no one was going to have his back? "I'm your captain. I know some guys say all that means is that I'm the guy who gets to plan the parties, but I should've been looking out for you."

Scraps still wouldn't look him in the eye. "You didn't know."

"That doesn't matter."

If he hadn't had the first clue about Scraps, what else had he missed? Who else might have been in that bar, laughing to cover their own butts but also watching to see how their captain and alternates reacted? Shit.

"So it doesn't bother you, that I, uh..."

Kent raised an eyebrow. "Like guys?"

Oh, Scrappy, my friend, do I have news for you.

"Yeah. And, y'know," he said, voice cracking, "have a boyfriend?"

Kent swore he felt a circuit breaker trip in his brain. Everything he thought he knew about Scraps was rearranging itself so fast he couldn't keep up. Scraps had a reputation as a player because he kept coming to practice with hickeys in interesting places, and from the way he talked, he burned through girlfriends at a rate that assholes like Carl found aspirational.

Girlfriends no one had ever met.

Girlfriends he always managed to break up with right before family skate or the team Christmas party or the post-season cookout.

And, now that he thought about it, Kent couldn't think of anyone ever saying that they'd been to Scraps' place even though he'd been with the team since the expansion draft. He honestly couldn't say he had any clue where in the city Scraps lived.

"A boyfriend, huh? That's cool," Kent said, because Scraps was getting visibly nervous at his lack of response. Now what else were you supposed to say at times like this? "Uh, how long have you two been together?"

And Christ, the way Scraps' eyes went soft for just a second hit Kent square in the heart the way Kit had when he first saw her huddled in the back of her cage at the shelter.

"Since we were fifteen. But me and Donny, we knew each other forever before then, I mean, he grew up two houses down from me. I don't remember ever not being friends with him."

Kent did the math on that, and even if he got it a little wrong, he knew that Scraps and his boy had been together a long time. Longer than any other couple he knew except for Bob and Alicia. And given what Kent knew about the tiny Alberta town Scraps came from, it was probably nothing short of a fucking miracle that they'd gotten together in the first place and survived to tell the tale. Or not tell it, as it turned out.

"I'm jealous. No, seriously, man. That's awesome," he said when Scraps gave him a sidelong look as if not sure if Kent was teasing him or not. He really was jealous, but it didn't feel like it was going to turn poisonous.

Scraps nodded brusquely, like he was squaring himself up for something. "I want us to go all the way next year, Parser. I want us to win again, and then I wanna do what Zimmermann did."

"You should've been able to do that five years ago, and I'm so fucking sorry you couldn't." Kent wished it was otherwise, but he couldn't see the Aces reacting to Scraps the way the Falcs had reacted to Jack.

Scraps didn't say anything. He just rubbed at his scar, a nervous gesture that came out only rarely, and Kent remembered with a twist in his gut how insistent he was that he get back out on the ice or at least back on the bench even though his face was still a mess.

"First things first, though," Kent said when he could breathe again, "I'm gonna help you figure out how to get Donny onto your emergency contacts list, okay?"

Scraps startled the way you did when it felt like someone had just read your mind, but then he looked like he was going to start crying again. "Management doesn't know."

They don't know about me, either, Kent almost said. He still wasn't sure he wanted them or anyone else to know. He'd need to think about it, and talk to a bunch of other people first. His therapist, for sure. Bob, maybe. "Okay. So give me his number and I'll make sure that if he needs to know anything, he'll know it."

"Thanks, Parser." Scraps looked relieved, but drained down to the last drop. Kent knew how that felt. He wondered if he should tell Scraps about himself, but it wouldn't be now. Not on top of everything else that had happened tonight.

"Things are going to change, Scraps. I'm gonna make sure of that. I should've done that earlier, but..." He shrugged. But he couldn't have his own back. He couldn't be his own ally.

He sure as hell could be someone else's ally, though.

"But?"

"But I was an asshole. Plain and simple. I could've made things different, but I didn't, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't tell Carl to shut the hell up. And don't say it's okay, because it's not. But I'll make it okay. I promise. Things are gonna change and when the time comes, you'll get to plant one on your boy at center ice if that's what you want. Or maybe you can go one better and put a ring on it. Now let me drive you home - you look seven kinds of wrecked. Where do you live, anyway?"

Scraps gave him the address.

"Boulder City!? Are you shitting me? You mean I've got to drive all the way to..." He slumped and tried to rub away the stress headache. "Argh! You know what, never mind. I said I've got you, so I got you. Get in the car. Why are all my friends are such freaking losers? Boulder City? Seriously?"

Someone else might have thought it weird how Scraps' face lit up at being chirped like that, but Kent got it.

They drove in a weirdly comfortable silence for a while, Scraps only interrupting to point out a better way to get to 215.

It was good to have something to think about that wasn't Zimms and whoever-the-fuck it was that wasn't Kent even though it was only holding off the inevitable collapse for just a bit longer.

But if he had a reason to keep his shit at least somewhat together...

"Remind me to call my therapist tomorrow."

Scraps startled away from looking into the darkness that had taken over once they passed Henderson. "Huh?"

"It's a long story, which I think you should maybe hear parts of, but not right now, okay?" Scraps needed to talk to Donny, and Kent needed to get home and cuddle with Kit and let himself break down for a little bit.

"Uh, okay?" Scraps had reverted to his usual state when not on the ice, which was pleasantly befuddled. "Oh! Turn here."

Scraps guided him through a maze of suburban streets. The general feel was upscale and private but not flashy, which was not what Kent would have expected. Of course, tonight had brought a lot of things he had not expected.

Kent finally pulled up in front of a faux-adobe house that looked like the kind of place you'd get if you maybe wanted to have kids some day. It was the sort of place you'd get with someone you'd been with for fifteen years.

Fifteen years. Jesus. He and Zimms had had less than a year as more-than-friends, and look how much it had fucked him up.

Scraps unlocked his door, but Kent reached out to stop him from getting out of the car "Hey, there's some stuff I gotta take care of tomorrow, but this weekend, I want you and Donny to come to my place for lunch or whatever. First of all, I need to see what kind of guy has been willing to put up with your ignorant ass for over a decade. Second of all, we need to talk about how we can start making things right. You want to come out to the team, right?"

"Yeah. If Donny does, I mean. But yeah."

"You do know that if you do, and it goes okay, you two are so going to get stuck with hosting cookouts for the team because it looks like you've got a sweet backyard there."

Hell, in a perfect world, they'd end up billeting a rookie or two, assuming the rookie was okay with driving out to East Jesus every day.

Scraps laughed and Kent thought that maybe everything would be okay.

He waited in his car until he saw that Scraps got safely inside. He got a brief, shadowed glimpse of a large man pulling Scraps inside and into a hug before the door closed behind them.

Kent punched his own address into his GPS because suburbs always confused and annoyed him. Then, he hit the road.

He could feel the thing with Zimms pushing at his head like the first pulses of a migraine, but his mind was whirling with enough other stuff to keep it at bay for the next little while at least. He started making a list.

First, he'd text his therapist a few details the minute he got home. Once she saw what it was about, Elaine would clear the decks for a phone appointment, no questions asked. Hell, if she'd watched the game or even just the news about the game, she was probably planning to call him if he didn't get in touch by tomorrow.

Next, he'd text Swoops and tell him to show up no earlier than eleven with a double batch of his special Bloody Marys. If Swoops was too hungover to drive or decided he was still pissed off at Kent about tonight, then Kent knew where Swoops lived and where he kept his spare key. He also had an air horn and he was not afraid to use it.

One way or another, they were going to have a little talk about what it meant to be a captain and what Kent would be expecting of his alternate captains going forward. They would also talk about how being an ally wasn't just not saying shit that would get you a fine for unsportsmanlike conduct. And then, if all went well, the two of them could gang up on Link and either get him with the program or find ways to make his life a living hell.

(He made a mental note to talk to Elaine about what to do if things didn't go well and Swoops decided to be an asshole after all.)

No matter what happened, though, things were going to change. They were already changing because of Jack, and it was long past time they changed because of Kent.

Fifteen years. How many other guys were out there in the league right now who were just like him or Scraps? How many had there been over the past hundred years? He shuddered. If he thought too much about it, he was going to be sick.

He was able to keep his thoughts down to a dull roar for the rest of the drive home and then up from the parking garage to his condo. Even before he got the door open, Kit was yowling like she'd been abandoned for weeks.

It wasn't until he scooped her up and she was purring like a cement mixer and butting her head up under his chin like she was trying to crawl inside his head that something finally struck him. He'd been so busy bracing himself for the inevitable breakdown about Zimms that he'd missed something else completely. Something big.

It was so freaking huge that he wondered why he hadn't seen it before, but now that he did see it, he collapsed back against the door and slid down to the ground because the sudden flood of relief was as overwhelming as any pain.

"I'm not alone, baby girl," he said as the tears finally came and would not stop. "I'm not alone anymore."

#omgcp #omgcheckplease #parse #swoops #scraps #tw: homophobia #lots of cursing because hockey players #parse is not doing well but he's doing better #discussions about coming out #dissociation and panic attacks #I'm not sure the world needs another post-3.26 fic #but I'm going to post this anyway #criticism welcome #but please don't be rude #also carl's last name is chadwick #just because

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dwollsadventures · 5 years ago

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TDG Prologue 3 - Devil

After a century of imprisonment, one prisoner is finally being released. The prison guard assigned to walk him out is troubled by a single fact gnawing at his heart: Seth Farofeil Locke is the devil himself. -- AH It's finally done. The revision of the final prologue!!

If you've ever wondered who the fellow with the rainbow glasses you've seen in my galleries is, this is him. And the primary antagonist of the gang, even if he doesn't show up right away.

My original plan was to finish writing and publish it on October 30th, but I got influenza and panicked that it was actually the plague. Turns out, it wasn't! Still pretty dangerous and I've been feeling like shit, but still a big weight off my shoulders. Halloween is as good a day as any to publish it though. It is sort of scary in some parts.

Warning though, there is some verbal violence and mentioning of some violence (towards people and animals), and strong language as well. On par for demonic stuff, but he doesn't actually do any of it.

The next updates, writing-wise, include some cover art for this story and the actual first part of the TDG Acronym Pending.

Enjoy whenever you want, regardless of how thin the veil between the dead and the living is, and have a happy Halloween!

On this day, October 30th, 1961, a man was released from prison and nobody was happy about it. Except the man in question of course.

Under the fluorescent lights of the block, there was no noise except for the footsteps of the guard, miserably marching towards his cell. The absence of noise let the footsteps and their echoes bounce around, until they became so distorted it sounded as if a giant were walking through the halls. Walsh normally liked the silence of the prison. Now it was more awful than anything he could imagine.

Despite the early glow of morning light betraying the fact it was nearly six am, every inmate in the block was awake. Staring at Walsh. He wanted nothing more than to shout at them, to tell them to mind their own damn business and keep their faces away from the bars. Under normal circumstances he would have, too. Now he didn’t trust his own voice not to crack.

The pressure of all that attention hammered away at the officer’s mind. It was as if he were an inmate being wheeled away by a couple of officers for the electric chair, an act Walsh had participated in a few times, but never on this end. His fingers itched for weapons he wasn’t allowed to bring with him.

In the darkness every haggard face looked at him anxiously. They all knew where he was going. The younger inmates may have noticed the similarity to a cartoon, where an unfortunate soul looks at the trail of gunpowder light as they sit on a box of dynamite. No such connection happened. Firstly, because there were very few young prisoners in the high security Galgenvogel. Secondly, the only person in the prison who might have laughed about the situation was Locke himself.

He was the reason they were all awake. Some of them hadn’t even been able to sleep the night before, others made each other promises to wake them up before it happened. They weren’t sure what was going to happen. Most of them had never thought Seth Farofeil Locke was capable of being released from prison. Even those not skilled in algebra knew Locke equaled prison. It was like watching a fundamental piece of the universe disintegrating in front of their eyes. But if anything was going to happen they wanted good seats.

The guard continued his resolute march with his attention on the path in front of him. The scuffed steel walkway seemed so solid compared to the rows of strained faces. That comfort was short-lived. Even the honest steel in front of him seemed to melt before his eyes, twisting the floor into the red-hot road leading to Hell. Walsh’s prison was melting before his very eyes.

Galgenvogel Penitentiary was known for two things: being the oldest operating prison in Illinois, and being a huge, dull block of brutalist efficiency. Its walls were blank concrete and metal, so thick a tank would need a week to bust in and so sleek even spiders had trouble scaling them. The inside of the prison was the same; metal had only been integrated decades ago and the dark iron railing stood plainly against the dreary grey of the stone walls. Though it was primarily a medium-security prison the stark dress did nothing to correct many people’s assumption that the single maximum-security unit was its sole purpose.

Even the uniforms worn by the inmates were devoid of color: white for general circulation, black for high-security, and grey for those on watch in circulation.

Walsh, the senior-most guard, had always expressed his opinion that a good monochrome always made them feel like they were in prison. He'd go on to say that all this orange and blue and green was part of what was wrong these days, with the recidivism rates as high as they are; gang-bangers jumping in and out all the time, swapping one color for another, it made him sick.

If there were a better representative of Galgenvogel than Walsh, he'd probably shouted at them. Walsh was, in his army days, lauded by his superior officers for being "big". It had gotten him high praise and higher wages back then. Now, with nearly forty years working under his belt, he was merely big. He was as grey as the building, though usually pink in the sunlight, with a topping of black hair and a big black moustache which his wife said made him look distinguished. Galgenvogel didn't hire guards for their kindness, nor their smarts, nor their sense of justice (although Walsh did consider himself a rather judicially minded man), especially in the Twenties. All the other prison guards looked up to him. A man of his seniority and experience was highly valued in a prison like Galgenvogel. There wasn’t a nook or cranny left that he hadn’t personally reported on.

Everyone at the prison, barring the inmates, whose opinion didn’t count, knew that Walsh was a good man. Raised Christian right around Chicago with a big family and a modest one of his own. If he could name a stain upon his soul, one singular sin that made even him question his own placement in the divine firmament, it was this belief: that Seth Farofeil Locke was the devil himself.

This wasn’t some crazy delusion, he assured himself. It had taken him nearly a decade of knowing Locke to fully accept it. He had all the evidence he needed as well.

It was a secret he was loath to share with anyone. His fellow guards, the wardens, even his own wife. In his day Walsh had dealt with gangsters and dragged murderers and lunatics to the electric chair. He placed himself as a stalwart wall against the criminal darkness to protect the innocent. The fact this one, singular man posed the greatest challenge he had ever known drove Walsh up the wall.

To Walsh’s knowledge Locke was as clean as a whistle. He had never thrown a punch, participated in a riot, or said anything to incite violence in others. Which wasn’t to say every word out of his mouth was clean and shiny. No, Locke had a special way with words. His tongue could infuriate the most stoic and subdue the most homicidal. Never once had he gotten a job or joined in on any of the other inmate’s games or activities. He’d checked out two books from the prison library during his entire stay at Galgenvogel and had never bought anything from the commissary.

Locke was perfectly fine to eat whatever the prison gave him, sleep whenever the guards told him to, do anything to waste away the days until he got released. Even if it meant staring at a wall for hours on end, looking at the strange shapes the bars were morphed into by the dying sunlight.

Once Walsh had gotten permission to throw Locke into solitary for three days after he was late for a count. For three days he heard nothing and saw nothing. On the last night of the third day Walsh escorted Locke back. He had asked him about his stay in the hole. Locke shrugged noncommittally and simply replied, “been in worse holes”. And that was that.

Walsh hated him. None of the other inmates made him feel as old and slow as Locke did. The guard was a big man, even in a profession where that wasn’t much to distinguish him. Galgenvogel let him carry big weapons, weapons they got from the army when they didn’t need them anymore. There hadn’t been a man Walsh had met that couldn’t be beat down given enough time. Except Locke. Everything passed over him like a gust of wind. Physical force, verbal haranguing, harsh punishment, it was all the same to him. He was the only prisoner Walsh had ever needed to use his brain to combat.

For as long as he’d been at Galgenvogel the two had been caught in a fiendish game of cat and mouse. Just when Walsh thought he had him, Locke slipped between his fingers once more and the game continued. All those chases over all those years for it to end like this.

In front of his cell, waiting for the watchtower to unlock it, he was face to face with the present. Without the lights on it was as dark as the mouth to a dragon’s cave.

Walsh could feel the inmates’ stares burn into his back like lashes as the cell door clicked open.

Locke was waiting for him. He sat on the edge of his bed in civilian clothes given to him by the prison. No one else was inside. For some reason or another, Locke was always alone.

In his hands were probably the only personal possessions Locke had ever had, two red dominoes. At least, Walsh thought they were dominoes. They looked like dominoes at least, the color of redwood and smoothed by years of being passed from hand to hand, slipped between his fingers like a magic trick.

Once Walsh had gotten them from him during an inspection. Despite his probing they weren’t laced with drugs. The symbols on them looked like pieces from a mahjong board, and despite his insistence none of them were gang signs. During the week they were gone, Locke stuck to his cell and shambled around like a ghost. Afterwards the correctional officers classified them as “depression-alleviating equipment” and that they were not to be taken from him anymore.

Regardless, the prison guards tried their best to sneak them away from him, often failing. To their knowledge none of the other prisoners had ever laid hands on them.

One night, one of the junior guards thought he saw them sitting on Locke’s eyes while he slept, like coins for the dead. Walsh was the only guard at the prison who made the effort to keep an eye on Locke. Amongst the staff Locke was a taboo subject.

Now the dominoes were simply jingling in his pockets. Locke stood up and nodded to Walsh. He wanted to get it all over with as soon as possible. He did not look back at his cell as he left.

With little pomp and circumstance, he led Locke out and towards freedom.

As Locke made his way across the block, the other inmates stared. On their faces was a mixture of confusion, contempt, pity, and relief. No one wished Locke goodbye and good wishes. No one shook his hand. No one said anything. They just kept staring at him.

The penitent theater gazed upon the two actors on the steel stage, breaths held in anticipation. Would he burst into flames as soon as he crossed the threshold? Or would snakes shoot out of his orifices? Would he make a mad dash for the warden and slice up anyone he met on the way? They didn’t know. They just kept waiting.

Walsh was by no means a shy man. He was a regular at the baseball stadium and his boisterous cheering could carry over the roar of a Cub's game straight out to the parking lot. Now, with hundreds of faces staring at Locke, he felt like an extra in a movie, the ones all dressed in black so they could move props without getting in the way of the actors.

By the time they’d crossed the barrier out of the block Walsh’s throat felt like it was tied in knots. He picked up his equipment, including his gun which he felt immeasurably safer carrying, and wiped off his brow.

If the walk affected Locke at all he was doing an amazing job at hiding it. He just kept staring ahead, twiddling the dominoes in his hand.

To break the silence Walsh cleared his throat and asked, “No one to say goodbye to back there?” Partly to ease the tension, partly to get a name to interrogate later.

Locke shrugged.

The continued walking out of the depths of the prison. Windows now let the early morning light in, basking the two in pink light which made Locke’s hair look like wildfire.

No friends, not a single one. During his initial investigation Walsh had spoken to some of the correctional officers, to see if Locke had gang affiliations or something of the sort. Perhaps a past inclination to associate with fellows of a darker nature. Anything that would seem more likely than him being a… demon. Walsh felt too embarrassed to even think the word now.

Luck did not favor Walsh. Everyone in the prison knew Locke, he was tied to the building, like an incarcerated genie. The C.O.s had noticed other men tended to seek out Locke for little things; favors or information. And he never ate alone. There was always one group that could manage to find space for him on the bench. A young Walsh found that every man who Locke hung around with expressed dislike, even hatred for him. Locke didn’t keep his mouth shut. Jokes leapt off his tongue as easily as flies, often spiraling into venomous spiels. Personal ones, too. He had a knack for figuring out secrets and what made people tick, and how to tic them off. Yet regardless of their opinion, they always kept coming back to him. Just like he did.

Walsh was the senior-most prison guard. The rest of his sign-on buddies had left, one by one, due to injury or stress (being sissies about it, he reflected) or plain old retiring. Not Walsh. When he first came aboard it was in the twenties. After his service in the Great War, back when it was called the Great War, he'd gotten a job at his home-town's police station but got an even better deal at Galgenvogel from his old sergeant. There he avoided all of the nonsense that the market-crash brought with it and rode a secure wave all the way to the prison equivalent of tenure.

Back then he had a lot more friends, people who he could reasonably confide in. Never in a million years did he share his secret suspicion, but there were at least other people willing to acknowledge that something about Locke didn’t seem right. His old friends helped him even though they didn’t know what he was actually looking for.

The older prison guards never helped him. All he got from them were shifty eyes and downcast gazes. He’d never liked the spineless old men. He’d vowed never to give the new recruits the same treatment. Some of them wished he would, always prying into their lives, lecturing them like a father.

Locke’s official paperwork didn’t offer much enlightening evidence. The three sheets of paper that constituted his record were from decades ago and tended to get details wrong. Eye color and hair color shifted twice and all three listed his age as 33 even with multi-year gaps between the writing.

One record noted a visitation in 1914 with two of his brothers. Frustratingly the names were not listed, and no other report mentions any kind of family. Walsh reasoned they were probably former accomplices of whatever put him in jail. Even a few years into the job he’d grown suspicious of visitors into his prison. Half of them were probably making sure the inmates didn’t squeal on those outside.

Within time both the paper trail and his patience puttered out. Walsh was not a book-learned man and he had no aspirations of following the paper trail.

He had all but given up his notion when one day a key landed itself in his pocket. To this day Walsh could still not recall how it got there. In the back of his mind theories crawled like spiders, but he tried to ignore them.

The key was for a lockbox in the archives. A separate building from the blocks and main center which went underground. In the cramped, dark underground room he found his key’s home. Prison records of Galgenvogel from the years 1860-1870.

Walsh knew the prison was old. Just knowing didn’t prepare him for what he found. Reports of arrests and prisoners, hand-written in curly font that made his eyebrow twitch. Though he assured himself he didn’t have to deal with any of this pencil-pushing crap, he kept reading. And reading. And reading.

Until one report for September 31st, 1861. A prisoner report appended with an arrest report and various court documents. They read that, on the night of September 13th a man claiming to be Seth Farofeil Locke was discovered in the garden of a wealthy family from the Gold Coast of Chicago. Alongside him was the family’s sole daughter, Lily Lyehope, hung from a noose. Mr. Locke was arrested, pled guilty, and sentenced to life in prison at the newly opened Galgenvogel where the judge ruled that he, “shall be confined there for the rest of a man’s natural life.”

Walsh didn't know what to think. Obviously, there must've been some kind of mix up. Locke was probably this guy's son, or grandson. When he got back to the guard tower, the key had disappeared from his pocket.

One week later, there was a fire in the archives. The newer records were kept intact, but everything from sixty years or so ago had been tragically destroyed. This was when Walsh’s suspicions were confirmed true.

No matter what he tried to do to forget, it never left his mind. Even on the days when he didn't think about it, the memory sat in the back of his thoughts waiting for the moment to pounce on his uneasy mind. He'd come to the prison a young man and became an old one through his years of service. Walsh gained weight, lost hair, got wrinkles, grew stiff in the joints, learned to cope with his inevitable death, and even lost a finger to a man on death row. When he joined, all those years ago, he thought Locke was a young man. Time passed, and he figured he was just young-looking for his age.

As Walsh walked Locke through door after door of prison security, watching him sign legal papers, he realized Locke was the exact same man as he’d met forty years ago. The only thing that was different was the uniform.

Walsh was possibly the only man alive who knew the truth.

Around this time the façade began to crumble. He couldn’t help it. All the inmates knew Locke as the guy who was in before them, who knew the prison and everyone in it. Even the ones given life sentences, who’d been in the prison longer than Walsh had. One night, after several before devoid of sleep and full of phantom Lockes watching him from the darkness, he’s snapped and beaten a man giving him trouble well beyond the point of reason.

The warden gave him a few nights off for paid vacation, ‘to rest your mind’. It was the worst vacation of his life. At home he wrestled with the thoughts until he got an ulcer. At first, he thought he needed to hightail it out of there, get his family away from the demonic threat in the prison. Walsh did not decide to do that.

Why did he join as a prison guard in the first place? Why did he go to Europe as a young man? Because he wanted to protect people. He wanted to be a warrior, a defender of the innocent. So, he marched back to the prison reassured of his new position as the last defense against the fiends of Hell.

When he got back, he never asked about the beaten prisoner.

His mission had started ever since then. Walsh was a man who operated best when he was following orders, and as far as he could concern these orders were heaven-sent.

Not being able to tell his wife and kids was the most aggravating part. If they knew the kind of danger he was putting himself in front of every day, they would show him more respect.

It had been long and hard. These forty years took a toll on Walsh, harder than even the trenches. Keeping track of him wasn’t that hard. He never left the prison and only ever switched between general circulation and high security once. And, compared to his other duties as a prison guard Locke wasn’t dangerous. The only damage he’d ever inflicted on anyone in prison had been rhetorical, his tongue could be razor sharp when it needed to be. In truth, after his vacation Walsh had never needed mental help dealing with his feelings, like some of the other pansies he worked with. But it was still hard. If not literal hardship, then poetic hardship.

Excluding his many hardships and daunting heavenly mission, Walsh reflected that his career had been successful. Whenever he didn’t have to deal with Locke the job was steady, and he could probably sink into a comfortable life after retirement. It looked like it was all smooth sailing for Walsh.

“And what do you plan to do after re-entering society? Do you have any careers in mind?”

“Yes sir, one of my buddies hooked me up with a gig. Sweet by the looks of it. Everything I’ve ever wanted to do and more, just need to take the bus to Toledo.”

Seeing him sign his name in the warden’s office and talk with him about his plans for after he got out, it didn’t seem real. None of it did. Locke was leaving. Ever since the retrial last week, life seemed like a dream.

Walsh was called in for an inmate’s trial. Nothing new, he’d done it before, usually to provide first-hand evidence of their behavior and infractions. Informing a court with a rapt audience of some ne’er-do-well’s bad conduct was one of the little joys of the job.

When he heard the judge proclaim Locke’s name, and saw him walk in through the courtroom doors, his heart had sunk. Lights flashed before his eyes. Something was wrong. How could he have missed the name?

It was an especially hot day. A stroke of misfortune on the weather’s part brought an October heat wave. No one questioned Walsh’s perspired brow, his dry throat.

His eyes were glued on Locke the entire trial. All he did was sit there, looking thoroughly disinterested with the theatre of law and order. If the men next to him were suspicious of Walsh’s rapt gaze, they didn’t say anything. Or Walsh didn’t hear them. They didn’t matter anyway. How was Locke going to squeeze his way out of this one?

Finally, he was called for a statement.

From his spot, he could see the jury, the few seated, the lawyer, and Locke. Everyone except Locke and his lawyer was anxious and fidgeting in their seats. Even the judge had to clear his throat after a failed start-up.

“Now, Mr. Walsh, are you able to corroborate Mr. Locke’s… age?”

The pause caught him off guard.

“Age, your honor?”

The judge’s eyes swiveled around, as if he were scared the defense was listening to him.

“Yes, Mr. Locke’s age. Sir Nemo, his lawyer, has claimed Locke to be 132 years old. And thus, he has more than served his life sentence. Is there anything that you can do to confirm or deny this?”

Walsh realized it now. In any other circumstance the whole court would have been called out. But this was Locke they were talking about. His freedom hinged entirely upon Walsh’s testimony.

He wanted to lie. If it meant foiling his plans Walsh would have told the court Locke was born this morning. Something stirred within Walsh, in this moment. He had placed his hand on the Bible. He had put his faith in it entirely. Now, in his heart, he knew if he did the right thing and told the truth, Locke would be forced to give up and maybe even burst into ashes.

Walsh spoke. He told the court nothing but the truth. About the report he’d found, about how Locke didn’t age, about how he seemed to exist separate from the stream of time. He poured every inch of honesty into his speech. Pure, unadulterated faith exuded from Walsh’s pores.

It was the first time the Good Book had failed him.

His lawyer successfully managed to convince the court that the language, “rest of a man’s natural life,” technically did not qualify as an actual life sentence. Furthermore, by any medical assessment, Locke had fulfilled his time and more. No one argued. No one wanted to be in that sweltering courtroom anymore. Even releasing a murderer seemed like a small price to pay for their peace and comfort.

The gavel struck Walsh in the head and the judge’s words poured out of his ears. Seth Farofeil Locke has served his life sentence and was free to go.

Days afterward Walsh moved through the world like a ghost. His eyes were blank, and he responded to others in mere mumbles. It was as if the life had drained out of him. He didn’t tail Locke. He didn’t listen in on the inmate’s gossip. He didn’t believe it.

Locke, meanwhile, was more alive than he had been in the last century. He was getting around and talking to people. Not trading information either, he was really talking to them: sitting with them at lunch to discuss life outside, learning how to play poker (which he developed quite a knack for), even spending evenings at the library. The color had returned to Locke’s grey life.

At one point he had even gotten Tony Larone, Tony Larone the biggest meanest brick wall ever given sentience, Tony Larone the man who during Prohibition killed his two buddies after they ratted him out, Tony Larone who hadn’t smiled since Hoover was in office, to laugh. By Galgenvogel’s standards, it was a miracle.

The closer his release date came, the more Locke flourished and Walsh wilted. For the briefest moment he had considered calling in sick. Only for a moment though. He needed to see this to the end. It was what he was owed, for all those years that had been stole from him. It was hard though. Walsh’s lucidity was slipping. He kept seeing things; fire in the skies and snakes biting their own tails populated his waking and sleeping hours.

Two nights before release Locke was making more phone calls than any other inmate. He could be seen writing in a pad all across the prison and said he was working on his “escape plans”.

During a routine check in the library, before closing, Walsh found that pad. Open to the most recent page, written in cursive so ornate it looked like calligraphy:

Events of Importance: Civil War Abolition of slavery Forty-five hundred dead Indians 2 World Wars “Adam?” bombs

IMPORTANT! Remember to use “burn” cars, so mortals can’t track

Contacts (revised): Go to Toledo, by Walbridge Park. Meet Amon. Best bet to get into Hell. Make sure to bring necessary ingredients for Hellmouth

He walked to Locke’s cell and handed it to him.

None of it phased Walsh, who was so convinced the last week had been a dream that such blatant evidence which confirmed his decades-long conspiracy was clearly lazy effort on his subconscious’s part.

That was how Walsh was treating most of his day-to-day life, actually.

It wasn’t until he saw Locke finish writing the last curly “e” on his signature that reality came to drag Walsh into the terrible present. That was it. The last bit of paperwork, the last performative bureaucracy needed to prove to the world that Locke was no longer an inmate. All he needed to do was wait for the bus.

For no real reason, except perhaps shock, Walsh sat across from him in the waiting room. Soon, when the officer at the front desk left (“it’s seven am, not like anything’s going to happen in here”) they were alone, together.

Locke, in denim from toe to tip two sizes bigger than his body, looked out the window at the rising sun and the gathering storm clouds. Red dominoes slipped between his fingers faster than the eyes could see.

Walsh simply looked at the floor.

Why am I so beat up about this? He couldn’t find an answer. Locke was the devil. He should be glad to see him leave and slam the door on the way out.

But… did he ever do anything particularly devilish? Not that Walsh could recall. There was the arrest record and the archives being burned. And the writing pad with his plans to go to Hell. Aside from that though, Locke never gave Walsh any problems. Locke even spared Walsh the verbal lacerations he so readily gave out to others.

They weren’t friends. No, Locke was his nemesis. His villain. Walsh watched over him for years, decades even. He’d known Locke for too long. Longer than anyone, really. Longer than his work buddies. Longer than his neighbors. Longer than his wife.

They couldn’t be friends. Just because they’d known each other for so long didn’t mean they were friends. Walsh wasn’t friends with his kids. The brats hated him! A friend was someone you knew. Someone you set boundaries with and met with every day. Which. Walsh did do. There was probably no one alive that knew Locke as well as he did.

Friends enjoyed each other’s company though. Did Walsh enjoy Locke’s company? It was so rare that they weren’t surrounded by thugs and criminals that he didn’t really know. Perhaps, compared to the rest of the trash at Galgenvogel, Walsh did remember Locke with something akin to fondness. Maybe Locke would too.

Galgenvogel. Locke and Galgenvogel, the two were intertwined in Walsh’s head. And Walsh liked his job at the prison. Even with the bruises and scrapes he wouldn’t give up a minute of it. Now that he thought about it, Locke was an integral part of that. He was challenging. No other person had ever put Walsh through such a rigamarole as Locke did. Walsh liked that challenge.

Were they friends?

Something clicked in his head. He was sad to see Locke go. A part of Walsh was leaving through that door with him.

Maybe when Locke got his feet on the ground they could meet up, outside of the prison. That would be nice, he reflected. Walsh had never mentioned his work to his family, but that was a good thing. He didn’t want to introduce them all to Locke the Jail Devil, he wanted them to meet Locke the friend.

Wind and the smell of rain tore into the waiting room as the door opened. The bus driver stumbled through, chilled to the bone. Every evidence of that morning’s sun was gone, replaced with rain so cold it nearly froze on contact. The bus was in dire need of fuel so the inmates, or inmate as it were, could wait inside for a little bit longer.

Locke asked if he could wait on the bus.

“’S cold as dick, but if you wanna freeze I won’t stop you.”

The bus driver headed out into the cold once more as Locke stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Spurred on by emotions unfamiliar to him, Walsh cried out “Wait!”

Locke didn’t bother to look back, but he did stop moving.

Gathering up every atom of emotional intelligence within him (which wasn’t very much) he tried to come up with a speech on the spot.

Then, Walsh said, “Before you go, I, uh, wanted to tell you something. I know you’re the devil. Or, a devil, I’m not really sure how all that works. Maybe should have paid more attention during church. But I also know you’re not as bad as all that. Throughout all the years I’ve known you, you’ve been nothing but a stand-up gentleman. And I’ve known you for quite a few years! More than half of my life to be honest. In that time, I think I’ve really gotten to know you. Really know you. So, all I’m saying is, if you ever stop by Chicago, you’d be welcome at my home. I don’t care if it’s a sin because your friendship has been worth it.”

Sweat poured off Walsh’s brow. That took more effort than he thought, he wasn’t sure how the actors did it.

Locke stood stock-still. Walsh’s perspiration began to feel like ice-cold water.

Silence stole the sound from the room. Even the clock’s tick was hushed. The only sound at all was the hazy ghost of Walsh’s speech.

Locke broke the silence, “You think we’re friends?”

If the flow of the universe were a song, his voice sounded like a discordant string killing the rhythm..

“You really think that?”

Now he had turned around. Walsh’s stomach turned sour.

“I knew you were stupid Walsh, but really? Has dementia climbed into your hollow skull already? I’m not joking is there genuinely something wrong with you?”

Though Locke spoke no quieter than a whisper in his calm, mocking tone, every word rang in Walsh's ears louder than a church-bell.

“There has to be. Why else would you think that any sane person would ever consider you a friend?”

Walsh had sat back down, trying to stammer out an apology. His voice was too quiet though, everything he said was drowned out by Locke.

“I’ve got it. You don’t know how abhorrent of a person you are. Well, allow me to add a disregard for reality to your list of mental deficiencies. Fortunately, unlike all of your other personal failings, this one I can fix.”

From where Walsh was, Locke seemed to loom over him. Shadows from outside crept through the windows and flanked him, making him seem all the taller.

“Of all the human beings I have encountered here, you are the worst. The thinnest, lowest scrapings at the bottom of the barrel of humanity, and that’s saying a lot. For a century I have been sitting in this stone midden surrounded by all sorts of gnats. I was told this place was a cage for the worst they had to offer. And yet? Most of them are shmucks, no worse than every other asshole out there, just the ones unlucky enough to get caught.”

Locke’s head scraped the ceiling, and his feet cracked the tiles of the floor.

“Even when I was in the very blackest of pits with actual monsters did I ever encounter one as repugnant as you. You willingly came here, not to preach justice and peace and kissing your grandma on the cheek, but to fight and strike and kill other men. The fact you’re in a prison is only an excuse to get away with it.”

Walsh tried to shrink back, dive into the crease between the chair's back and seat, but Locke grabbed him and held him in his hand. Everything was dark, but Locke stood blazing bright commanding Walsh's attention. All he could do was faintly whisper “No…”

“No? I’ve seen you Walsh. I’ve seen the shine in your eyes as you beat men to an early grave. You don’t care what they did. You willingly sign up to drag them off to the electric chair. You’re an old man and you still come here every night salivating for the chance to show how big and tough you are to some scared sap who stepped out of line. To remind them of how stronger you are than them. I bet you’ve jerked yourself off thinking of that feeling.”

He felt an irritation in his pants, like a hand made of brambles had grabbed his unmentionables. Walsh tried, unsuccessfully, to blink the tears out of his eyes.

“I was planning on leaving this place to go to Hell Walsh. Hell. But as I am standing here looking at your flaccid, dickless form, a thought has crossed my mind. You’re going to end up there. If I go to Hell, I will probably see you there. And now, I’m having second thoughts. Is it worth it, to continue this plan I’ve been working on for the last century, if I have to suffer the misery of being in your presence again?”

Locke was a giant now. His hair stood up and twisted like plumes of flame, his hands twisted into eagle’s claws. Between wolf-like teeth venom dribbled from his mouth.

“You are lucky I don’t have a choice. If I could, I would dive into the grave and burn every forest and scorch every sea so that I wouldn’t have to see you.”

Acting on impulse, with his last bit of strength, Walsh rose up and struck Locke. He faltered, for a moment. Then, Walsh looked down at his hand and saw how feeble of a gesture it was. Walsh hadn’t even reached half-way.

“You're as strong as an ant and as loud as a spider Walsh. I could kill you with my thumb, but you're so disgusting it wouldn't make a difference. Nobody would even notice you were gone."

A third voice came from the door. "Uh... bus is ready."

The bus-driver had walked in, wondering what was taking them so long. He found the inmate, excuse me, former inmate, talking to the guard, who looked terrified out of his mind. Weirded him out something fierce.

Shadows retreated behind their master like faithful dogs and the room returned to its previous state. No sign of the insidiousness from before could be seen.

Locke grabbed his things and left without saying another word.

Walsh only noticed he was gone when he heard the firing up of the engine and saw the bus leave Galgenvogel's gates for the last time.

As the bus left, the front-desk guard came back. No one was in the waiting room. Which was weird, since Walsh should have passed him on his way back. The chair he sat in was empty, save for a small wet patch on the seat. Later, he would call for the janitor to clean it. Later still, he would have thought it worrying that Walsh wasn’t anywhere to be found, except he was a little preoccupied with the world ending.

On the long stretch of highway between Chicago and Toledo, there's nothing to see. There isn't even a "whole lot of nothing", that would be much too imaginative and witty to describe the eye-watering boringness of the road.

Standing out like oases in the Sahara are the few towns you get the pleasure of driving through on your way there. Compared to the start of the drive and the destination they're nothing to sneeze at, but after a couple of hours behind the steering wheel they seem like tiny spots of Heaven.

In one such town, no more than a clump of streets shooting off from the stem of the highway, Ma and Pa's corner-store makes a modest living. Most of their customers are travelers desperate for a reason to stop driving or locals ready to spend an hour chatting with the owners, the eponymous Ma and Pa, while picking up a little grocery.

Because they were on the road they got a lot of people. Truckers, business trips, family-outings, reunions, the local sheriff, census workers, teenagers, and even the odd honeymooners.

They'd never seen one like this before.

Ma had been at the front for a few hours catching up on her stories when she'd heard the tinkly bell of the doors. As soon as she finished customarily thanking him for coming in, she was tearing across the pages of the Yellow-Book looking for the number of the nearest sheriff's department. Something set her nerves off.

It wasn’t the way he was dressed (which made him look like he’d escaped from prison). It wasn’t the way he talked (like a heathen). Nor was it his attitude (which put Ma in mind of those no-good greasers she saw on the telly). She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it just felt like, when he walked into the store, she felt the inexplicable urge to punch him.

The wind outside wasn’t helping her nerves either. As soon as he’d come in it had picked up, and now it was rattling the door. Bird feeders and wind chimes tried to use metal wings to fly away.

Before skulking off he drawled out, "You got candles and salt? Last dump pointed in this direction for 'em."

Ma, barely fending off the beginning of a heart-attack, pointed towards aisles three and five.

He grabbed one of the shopping baskets, knocking six of them over in the process, and walked off.

A cluck made her eye twitch. As if that hadn't been enough, for God knows what reason he'd walked in with a chicken tucked beneath his right arm. This was probably the detail that made her ignore all the warning flags and sent her into a murderous rampage. The mere thought of having to clean up chicken mess from the floor made her fingers itch towards the club under the register.

She'd expected to smell alcohol on him, but the smell filling her nostrils was more like burnt pitch, or a campfire.

Ma was having trouble deciding whether or not he was breaking out of prison to rob them or coming back from some hippy commune to sneakily pilfer something but figured the sheriff could handle either option.

In the backroom Pa sat in his chair watching the chattering television, completely unaware. The way he was looking at it made her blood boil even more. Shame on him for watching that damned thing more closely than the services at church, oblivious to the fact that we are in the midst of being robbed!

She moves to wave at him, hoping he'll notice her, but stops once the stranger walks towards the counter with his purchases.

Regaining her composure, she says on instinct, "Will this be everything?"

He mutters "sure" without looking her in the eyes, instead gazing at the swirling clouds outside. Only the last vestiges of human decency keep her from tearing his limbs off.

Ma would never consider herself a criminal, but she possessed a long and extensive knowledge of heists, robberies, and murders after reading several hundred crime novels throughout the latter half of her life. Even she was stumped as to what crime he could commit with five novelty Christmas candles, a bag of salt, and a chicken.

While ringing up his purchases, she tries to look at his coat to see if there were any bulges that hadn't been there before. But it appeared he had stolen nothing. Nothing that she could see at least.

She does notice that, in his free hands were a small rucksack with nothing but spare change, a slip of paper with a phone number on it, and a pair of dominoes with red markings on them. And his wallet, from which he fished out a five-dollar bill.

"Two twenty-five is your total, would you like a bag to put this in, sir?" He didn't deserve a dear now, much less a dearie.

"Yes, if you'd so please."

She put the strange things in his bag and tried to swipe the peanut bowl away from the chicken, who was pecking at it to get closer. This and the rough, automated noise of the receipt printing only served to worsen her temper.

Just standing next to him made her stomach turn. Which was odd, because, when she got a better look at him, he was quite good looking. If he shaved the curtains over his eyes, he actually reminded Ma of one of her old flings. Back before she was Ma, before she met Pa, when she hung around the wrong crowd.

Together they’d been the talk of the town. Her own mother hated him, which just made him all the more attractive. No boy she’d ever met before had his own car. He’d even let her drive it all the way out to Chicago.

Which made it all the more heartbreaking when he drove up to prom with her sister. Ma stood in front of them in disbelief, and they walked past her without even a ‘how do you do’. It made her so mad.

When she got home, she tore her sister’s room apart. Broke all of her nails clawing the wallpaper and ripping the pillows to shreds. Throwing paint into her wardrobe. Flooding her restroom. Putting a bit of rat poison into the cat’s dinner bowl…

A knock against the window made her look up. There was a crack in the glass.

She looked around, but the wind outside was so violent that it must have carried whatever broke the glass just as fast as it brought it. Ma shivered. She had the willies, the creeps, and the heebie-jeebies all at once.

The receipt was cold, the ink dried. Ma looked over, but the man was gone. She was alone. Just like the night of prom.

Next to her, the sunglass rack spun and nearly gave her a start. Her stranger was standing next to it, with a look of such genuine mystification that you’d think he had never seen a pair before.

In fact, Locke had never seen a pair of sunglasses before. Certain fashion trends had eluded him while imprisoned. The officers weren't allowed to wear them while working, and the inmates only got them if they were working outside.

Spectacles he'd seen before, but the tinted glass framed by wired metal seemed so astoundingly simple he wondered why no one had done it earlier. He wondered why he didn't do it earlier.

Something that obscures your face without hiding it, were the first thoughts on his mind. The second, third, and fourth whizzed by so fast that they could not be recorded in print.

He spun the rack around, marveling at the different types, until he found one that spoke to him.

A pair tinted so brilliantly rainbow that you could see nothing through them. Locke slipped one of the domino-like objects from his left hand and placed them beneath the glasses. Looking down, through his right eye, he couldn't even see their silhouette.

Ma, in the process of extending her neck vertebrae so she could see what the stranger was doing, nearly cried out when a shriek so loud it rung her ears pierced the air. The shocked woman rubbed her ears, not sure if that was the lightning outside or some sort of shrill laughter.

He turned around, glasses set firmly on his face and asked, "How much for these?" His teeth were as bright and sharp as a fork of lightning.

She responded weakly, clutching her chest, "A dollar."

Looking at the change in her hand, "Well then, I reckon you can keep the rest of that!"

With a spring in his step, he grabbed all of his things and left the store. The swing of the door once again knocked over the shopping baskets, excluding the one he walked out with.

Ma did a few things when he left as soon as she was sure she couldn't hear his footsteps in the distance.

First, she screamed at the top of her lungs.

Second, she put the rest of the change in the cashier.

Third, she scoured the path he walked, looking desperately for a speck, an atom of that chicken or its droppings.

Once she was content that her store was clean, she, Fourth, went to go holler at Pa.

During this entire exchange, Pa, the doting husband of Ma for fifty years, was only visible as the back of a head outlined by the white glow of the television he was watching. Normally the two ran the shop together, but during their long periods of down time he liked to watch the TV while his wife read her stories. They kept the TV in the backroom, so he wouldn't be tempted to watch it on the job.

In any other circumstance he would get up and go to the front counter with his wife when he heard the little bell of the door. When Ma opened the backroom's door fully, he was still glued to the TV's screen.

She grabs him by his shoulders, dragging him towards the phone at the counter.

"Henry, I don't know why you didn't come in, but there was a hippy in our store, and he robbed us! I want you to get on that telephone and call the sheriff right now-"

"Judith-"

"He just left, but mark my words I bet he's heading to Chicago-"

"Judith-"

"Oh, I was this close, this close to getting the broom out and walloping him-"

"Judith there's something on the tele-"

"Yes Henry? Yes, I bet you know all about it. Honestly, the way you were looking at it, you'd think it married you instead-"

"You need to see this honey-"

"Oh, and he's got some damned chicken from the Hicken's farm, I don't know what he's planning on doing with it, but mark my words it's nothing good-"

"JUDITH."

Pa shouts, making the entire store seem so much more silent. Ma makes to get at him but stops when she notices the shell-shocked expression on his face. He looked more scared than he'd ever been in his life. Taking his wife by the arm, he shows her to the backroom, to the tiny black and white screen.

Images and videos flash across it, every channel dominated by the same headlines. 'MONSTERS SEEN ACROSS AMERICA', 'SEA-LINER TORN APART', 'WEIRD SYMBOLS SEEN IN SKY', 'GIANT FIGURES STAND OVER LONDON' and countless more. On their own local station, the reporter acts on instinct, relaying all the news in a stammering panic. Monstrous beings and supernatural entities are being spotted all over the world, with disasters playing out in real-time. Volcanoes, earthquakes, tidal waves, storms, it's as if the very earth were waking up and releasing beasts from beneath the surface. Tears dot the reporter's eyes as news of carnage slowly devolves into unintelligible sobbing at the last headline, 'THE END OF THE WORLD'.

This all goes unheard. Soon the reporter falls onto the ground like the couple in their store. A sound tears across the sky, louder than anything in the world. Ma and Pa clutch their ears as they feel their own skeletons vibrate in tune with the sky's scream. All they can do is watch deafened from the floor at the other's expressions of pain, holding each other close.

Outside on the highway, cars have stopped, many crashing into each other. Drivers and passengers alike release horrified screams as they begin to feel the universe's dying moans drill into their skulls. Hundreds of thoughts swirl together, thoughts of the terrible, imminent end to life as they knew it, all suddenly realizing that they were unprepared for it. In their car-seats children wail with their parents, unable to come to understand the finality of life, but still just as scared. Of all the people in the road, only one can hear it all.

Locke walks down towards the city in the distance, ignoring the screams. All the panic choking the hearts of the mortals on the highway is, to him, one more straw on the proverbial camel's back. It'd take more than that to break his camel. He hadn't spent a literal century sitting on his ass to run around screaming like a baby after the first sign of the end of the world. Besides, the world wasn’t ending. He would know if it were ending. It was simply getting more interesting.

The hen can't hear it either. To her, humans were doing weird, distressing human things. Rainwater plasters her feathers down, making her a sodden heap unable to escape the creature’s grasp.

Locke tests out his reflection in the shiny black window of a truck lying upended in a ditch. To the best of his ability he can't see his own eyes past the rainbow reflection.

The man who was driving the truck begins trying to crawl through the window, cutting himself on the broken glass. Locke does not try to help him.

"These things are a damn life-saver."

He once again models them for himself, but the glasses fall off the bridge of his nose to the grass. Locke gets on his knees and gropes around for them.

Once he stands up, he finds the dominoes still in their place.

"Gonna have to do something about that."

Locke walks past the people, recovering from their twenty seconds of utter hell. They take no notice of him and he does likewise. Blood fills the nostrils of the hen, who begins wiggling in his grasp. The grip on her tightens, doing nothing to calm her down but making her move around less.

With a knife, which he did indeed steal from Ma and Pa, Locke carves a few tiny symbols into the thick temples of the glasses without looking at them.

After they're drawn, he takes the hen's neck and makes a slight incision on her forehead. Blood pools fast as he wets his finger in the red liquid. The minuscule symbols are coated in a small layer of blood, activating, so to speak.

Locke bends down ninety degrees, yet the glasses stay on. He shoots back up, throwing his head from side to side, and they stay glued to his face.

"Perfect."

Today would have been perfect too, were it not for Walsh. He’d had the entire day planned and all it took was his dumb ass to sour it all for Locke.

Light shone through the clouds.

By coincidence, rainbow-shaded lenses looked up and met their match. Further along the road, the clouds were clearing from Toledo and the rain met with the sun, forming a real rainbow. From where he stood it looked like the bridge to a new era.

Locke smiled. Oh well. It wouldn’t do to let one little mortal ruin his big day. Now that his punishment was over, it was time to show all those assholes what a real bad guy looked like. First though, he had to go take his purchases and make a few calls down-under.

And Locke didn't know any Australians.

#short story #literature #prologue #tdg #locke #devil #demon #satan #apocalypse #armageddon #halloween #acronym pending #now with cover art

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samdukewieland · 5 years ago

Text

Stuck Inside Media Diary Week 5

I realized the last movie I saw in theaters was Little Women for the third time. Then that got me thinking about how I ranked my Top whatever movies from last year and inconsequential ranking things is. It was probably the movie that makes me feel the best; it and Knives Out were the two movies I saw the most in a theater last year and they were both the ones that I get excited talking about with people. Good flicks, you should check ‘em out. (I also re-learned recently that Emma Stone was originally supposed to play Meg who was played by Emma Watson. Had this happened, my brain would’ve collapsed due to trying to figure out how to balance crushes on Greta Gerwig, Saoirse Ronan, Florence Pugh, Laura Dern and Emma Stone all in the same thing).

Sunday, April 19

Deliverance, Boorman 1972

On the one hand there is no real way to prepare you for how awful the assault on Ned Beatty and John Voight scene is as well as having me wonder if this was actually a Vietnam movie masked in something about the destruction of the natural world (maybe it’s both or just one). On the other hand, I thought it’d be funny to compare the characters to this to the characters in American Pie, but there’s no Stiffler or Jim’s Dad in this movie, so it doesn’t completely work.

Mad Men, “Long Weekend”, “Indian Summer”, “Nixon Vs. Kennedy”, “The Wheel” [season 1 finale]

There’s two things I’ll never forget the first time I ran through the first season of Mad Men: 1. Thinking “is Don even good at his job? I don’t think we’ve even seen this guy even really do his job yet, how did he become partner?” and then “The Wheel happens”. 2. I had let one of my favorite History teachers borrow my DVDs (this would happen again in my life when I later lent my English teacher The Wire when I was a senior two years later) and when he finished the first season he and I talked about what dumb-dumb idiots we were because we hadn’t figured out that Peggy was definitely pregnant and were surprised by this revelation, while his girlfriend at the time figured it out instantly.

Parks And Rec, “Greg Pikitis”, “Ron And Tammy”

That these two episodes were on back-to-back was probably the moment in the public consciousness that Parks was the real deal. How could you not; I watch “Greg Pikitis” every Halloween.

The Last Dance, Parts 1 & 2

I can’t remember the last thing I watched in real time on the tv. It’s very possible, though I don’t think so, that The Last Dance might be quarantine great and in real life very, very good. It doesn’t really matter, because this thing is just crazy fun to watch, as a person who was not able to watch Jordan basketball and sometimes thinks that Gen Xers gets way too [whatever that Spongebob meme is where you capitalize every other letter in a sentence] about Michael Jordan. The music cues are God-tier.

Joe Pera Talks With You, “Joe Pera Shows You Iron”, “Joe Pera Takes You To Breakfast”, “Joe Pera Takes You On A Fall Drive”

“Joe Pera Takes You To Breakfast” might be one of the funniest episodes of television I’ve seen in a long time. As someone who takes too much enjoyment in stream of consciousness humor, I might be too in the bag for this show. I certainly don’t know how to sell it to any of you, other than it might be the perfect counterpart to Review. That could just be that Joe Pera looks like an alt-universe Andy Daly or it could be that Forrest MacNeil could’ve, desperately, used a friend like Joe Pera if only just to see how they’d interact with each other.

Monday, April 20

Under The Silver Lake, Mitchell 2018 [as of now this is available on Prime]

I’m embarrassed that I caved into watching a stoner movie on 4/20, but I’m glad it was this. This weird, gross and beautifully shot weird little movie that really did some good work in reminding me that Andrew Garfield is good. People will argue that this broke his brain, when in reality it was those two embarrassing Spider-Man movies.

Joe Pera Talks With You, “Joe Pera Shows You How To Dance”, “Joe Pera Talks You Back To Sleep”, “Joe Pera Reads You The Church Announcements”

So “Church Announcements” was the first episode of this show that I had ever seen, because I had three different friends recommend it to me because I had posted something about “Baba O’Riley” very off-handedly, not even knowing this episode existed. It’s probably the purest expression of joy and one of the most sincerely happy things I might have ever seen. I love this show so much.

Tuesday, April 21

The Birdcage, Nichols 1996 [as of now this is available on Prime]

This is a good reminder that Nathan Lane is insanely talented and easily one of the most undervalued performers alive. I wanted to watch a Gene Hackman movie and this was available and it’s pretty good. Sometimes plays shouldn’t be turned into movies, that’s my take here-what do you want from me.

Better Call Saul, “Something Unforgivable”

Safe to say Saul’s got the belt. I was listening to Greenwald and Ryan the other night and someone had throughout a hypothetical to them that if they could would they want Gilligan and the gang to to remake Breaking Bad now, and have that (essentially) be the spin-off from Saul instead of vice-versa. That then got me thinking about if there’s ever been a property that’s taken place within the same universe that waited almost a season and a half to introduce the character (or thing) that connected the two things? There’s probably some kind of sci-fi or fantasy story that nerds would be eager to inform me of and it’s called 2une or something like that. Cool if so! If not, then no one steal my idea, this could be huge.

Joe Pera Talks With You, “Joe Pera Lights Up The Night with You”, “Joe Pera Talks to You About the Rat Wars of Alberta, Canada (1950–Present Day)”, “Joe Pera Answers Your Questions About Cold Weather” [Season 1 finale]

“Can you believe those jag-offs through a New Year’s Eve party with just one bottle of Disarooney” is something I just say out loud when I’m frustrated now. I stayed up until like 3AM last Tuesday wrapping up the first season.

Wednesday, April 22

The Stranger, Welles 1946 [as of now this is available on Netflix]

First Orson Welles movie. It was fine! I don’t really think it should’ve been an hour-and-a-half long, but I was also surprised that they were already making movies about Nazis escaping to the US in 1946, but I’m definitely not a historian and I’m sure a lot of things would surprise me about 1946. It’s also a public domain movie which is just kinda....weird and would probably piss off Orson Welles or maybe he’d be thrilled.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Hughes 1986 [as of now this is available on Netflix]

Maybe the best use of a Beatles song in a movie that doesn’t star The Beatles? I used to go back and forth on whether or not I like this movie, because so many people do like it and I used to be loathe to conform to non-controversial opinions. But something I think that gets really overlooked is how well this movie is shot-Hughes had a real eye for framing and blocking. Or maybe people talk about this all the time and I just haven’t cared to ever listen or seek it out.

The Plot Against America, “Part 2″

Mad Men, [Season 2 premier] “For Those Who Think Young”, “Flight 1″

I had forgotten how GD disorienting this show can be when it goes out of its way to not tell you how much time has passed between each season (it’s like 15 months this time). That’s all I’ve got now, that and Duck Phillips: welcome back into my life, you sick son of a bitch.

Joe Pera Talks With You, [Season 2 premier] “Joe Pera Talks With You About Beans”, “Joe Pera Takes You On A Hike”

Thursday, April 23

Harold And Maude, Ashby 1971 [as of now this is available on Prime]

Another entry in the “I didn’t realize how many movies try to be this one” book. Really funny, and so shockingly dark, I can’t imagine how much people hated this when it first came out and how hard of a sell it would be to try and talk someone into seeing it. Probably what I liked most about it was how earned the sense of finding joy in life is in this movie, considering how cynical it is in depicting the fetishization guys tend to do with the notion of suicide. It’s quirky without being twee (if you want that, I guess go to Rushmore, a movie I adore, but definitely borrows heavily from this, something Anderson wouldn’t ever deny).

Mad Men, “The Benefactor”, “Three Sundays”

Harry Crane’s campaign to be the least liked person in Mad Men, you could argue, starts more-so here than it did in the finale of S1 when he cheats on his wife.

The Plot Against America, “Part 3″

I don’t think anything, Television-wise, has benefited less from the pandemic than TPAA. Of course it would happen to a David Simon show and maybe it’s a good thing, considering how the number of bad takes would greatly outweigh the number of good takes that would come about if there was some more attention on it.

Joe Pera Talks With You, “Joe Pera Waits With You”, “Joe Pera Guides You Through The Dark”

I can’t remember the last time I laughed as hard as I did when they started demonstrating the different hair styles you can get when getting your hair cut. These episodes have somehow gotten goofier than the first season and it’s, uh, really good.

Friday, April 24

Parks And Recreation, “The Camel”

Top Chef, Season 17 episode 6

Brooklyn Nine-Nine, “Lights Out”

Dan Goor & Luke Del Tredici is to Brooklyn Nine-Nine as Michael Schur & Aisha Muharrar was to Parks And Recreation.

The Beastie Boys Story, Jonze 2020 [available on AppleTV+]

As with any kind of retrospective, there’s a fair amount of yadda-yadda-ing and maybe not everything totally works with this live-documentary, but it’s so deeply Beastie Boys that I can’t help but just be so grateful that it exists. While it’s like a vaudeville symposium it is absolutely doubles as a love letter to a departed friend and immense talent. The worst thing that could happen is that it’ll just make you want to re-listen to the gods.

Mad Men, “The New Girl”, “Maidenform”

I just can’t believe that Chauncey exits the series the same episode that he enters.This was and still remains the turning point of Duck Phillips: terrible human (and kind of when he turns a little cartoonish).

Saturday, April 25

Parks And Recreation, “Hunting Trip”

Mad Men, “The Gold Violin”, “A Night To Remember”, “Six Month Leave”, “The Inheritance”, “The Jet Set”

Quite a run of episodes here for ole Mad Men here. Always love when they remind us that everyone really underestimates Ken Cosgrove (even himself). And as I was watching “Six Month Leave” it kind of hit me that this is an outlier episode of Mad Men. It’s so much of a whole that I find it hard to put one episode above another, but if I needed just an episode of Mad Men to watch at random like a year or so from now, this is one that would really stick out to me. A great farewell to a great Murray brother.

Bad Education, Finley 2019 [available on HBO Now/Go]

It sucks that HBO makes more bad movies than it does good, but when they’re good, man they’re really good. It hits some HBO movie bingo squares which are kind of eye-rolley to me, but all-in-all, this is a really outstanding little movie. It feels weird that it’s taken this long for Ray Romano to start carving out a character actor niche for himself, but I’m just happy we’re finally here! I saw someone compare it to or with Wolf Of Wall Street and as someone not from Long Island I feel confident in saying that they’re a helluva Long Island scum-bag (repetitive?) double feature.

The Plot Against America, “Part 4″

Was really hoping this was going to be the thing that made people remember that Winona is incredible and not Stranger Things, but that’d require like a dozen monkey’s paw wishes that I just don’t have. (What a world it’d be if The Plot Against America adaptation somehow eclipsed Stranger Things in terms of cultural significance) However badly I wanted that though, this has really been Zoe Kazan’s show-a quieter role than Anthony Boyle (who I am also just floored by) but more effective in how much internal processing she’s doing with this character.

Joe Pera Talks With You, “Joe Pera Takes You To The Grocery Store”, “Joe Pera Goes To Dave Wojcek’s Bachelor Party With You”

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the-cryptographer · 8 years ago

Note

You may choose between Trustshipping or Angstshipping for the meme, if you'd like!

I’m sorry. If you give me two options I’m gonna probably always pick both. Hope you don’t mind :’D

Under the cut:

Isis/Seto.

What they watch during movie dates and what kind of snacks they get from concessions.

Isis is probably the one that actually likes avant gardefilm, and the most obscure foreign films, and really quiet personal dramas.Seto finds all of it utterly boring, but he tags along anyhow and, ifeverything goes according to plan, he falls asleep within the first half hour,and Isis gets to enjoy the screen, her junior mints, and Seto’s adorablesleeping face. And Seto wakes up refreshed from his power nap so it was awin-win for everyone.

Which one gets in to a fight with the other’s parents.

Everyone’s parents are so dead. But let me say Isis andMokuba get along stunningly well, but Seto and Malik are always at each other’s throats. It probably starts with mild irritation from the way Battle City wentdown, but then it starts magnifying. Both Malik and Seto are rude and failedtheir anger management classes after all, so small infringements on eachother’s space start to add up, and then eventually the worst of both of themstarts to show, and Isis becomes the battleground for their possessiveness, andnow they avoid so much as being in the same room as one another. Seto andRishid also don’t get along great, although not nearly as bad as Seto andMalik. They both make super stern faces at each other, and don’t say anything,and refuse to break eye contact for five minutes, until finally one of them hassomething else that requires their attention. And it seems to everybody theydon’t get along, but really on the inside of their head they’re like ??? andcompletely unable to interpret each other, and both of them are wondering ifthey did something to offend the other but neither can think of anything. Badat communicating bros.

What kind of street performance they’d put on to raise money if they were stranded somewhere.

Isis had the necklace in canon, of course, but I wonder ifshe’s a skilled cold-reader? I can see her being good at something like that.She recruits Seto to help her set up a stand for palm reading, and gives reallyvague but good advice and puts on a bit of a show and completely charms thepeople walking by. Seto is really grumpy about it – first of all fortunetelling is BS, and second of all Isis is totally playing up her ‘exotic’foreignness. But then Isis tells him to buzz off – what would he know aboutbeing foreign in Japan/France, or being a cave-dwelling Egyptian with anunusual phenotype, and she’s only doing this so they can afford a room for thenight so he can suck it up and be appreciative of her amazing skills pls.

How they’d be as parents if they had-a-kid/someone-forced-a-kid-on-them.

Emotionally distant parents… haha. Unplanned (or at leasthalf-unplanned) trustshipping baby is actually one of my favourite headcanons.Somehow they overlooked something obvious~Anyhow, Isis is a little better at being soft, compared to Seto, and definitelybetter at being attentive. I wouldn’t call her understanding, exactly, butshe’s not really going to hold what she doesn’t understand against you – if youget me? She’s also more physically affectionate – kisses to the brow, andwashing the kid’s hair in warm water, and sleeping cuddled next to baby. But,otherwise, they’re both kind of inclined to do the same kind of parenting jobs– handling the soft-quiet moments before bedtime, and being a unified wall ofice when they need to discipline. And, anyhow, they’re both really into theircareers, so I think they’d hire somebody to take care of the kid in themornings – feed breakfast, and pack lunch, and drive to school. They kind ofsplit the evening shift between them then.

Who would cause the most trouble during a camping trip and how.

See, unlike Seto and Jounouchi where I could imagineJounouchi dragging Seto out on a recreational camping trip (sort of) againsthis will, I can’t imagine either Seto or Isis going camping unless there wassome reason they needed to gocamping. Maybe they’re visiting some remote archaeological site, and Setocouldn’t get clearance to fly the Blue Eyes jet in. Or there isn’t a place toland the Blue Eyes jet and Isis refuses to jump from a moving plane, lmao. Ormaybe they’re stuck in virtual reality or (netherworld) Ancient Egpyt or somefantasy AU or are just stranded in the middle of nowhere after some traumaticevent? Since they are comrades in ‘can this be over already?’ they worktogether with terrible efficiency. They are neat and direct and to the pointwhile setting up camp and making meals and packing up. Neither idly causestrouble. I think the worst of it is maybe that Isis isn’t quite as athleticallyinclined as Seto, or rather her stride is much shorter, so while they’re walkingthere’s a moment where she’s exhausted and fallen quite a bit behind, andSeto’s like ‘what’s wrong? hurry up.’ And Isis, who is kind of embarrassed thatshe’s struggling is finally tired of sucking it up and is like, ‘can we restfor half and hour,’ except it’s not really a question. And then Seto is like,‘Hn,’ kind of annoyed, but they both sit so Isis can catch her breath and eatsomething.

What they would give each other as both a serious gift and a troll gift.

I think Isis likes gift giving type traditions, so she mightinsist upon it until it actually makes it through Seto’s skull. Isis puts a lotof thought into getting beautiful wood carvings and vases and other home goods,and Seto just thinks all of it is terrible trash, lol. Comparatively Seto buysher things like leather wallets and purses and dresses without thinking, andIsis actually cherishes them, lol. Eventually I think both of them happen uponbetter methods though. Seto finds the Metropolitan Museum of Art Store magazineand actually gets a clue. And Isis starts to buy him books instead – not everyone is a winner, but Seto enjoys at least half her picks so~Would- Would either of them buy troll gifts? Isis might buy Seto sillykeychains with little kites or blue eyes just for fun. But even that’s not thattrolly.

Who moves in with them as an unfortunate third wheel roommate.

MALIK.

How they feel about handholding and sudden kisses in the ear-cheek vicinity.

Handholding: no. not casually at least. Sudden kisses: inpublic – no. in private – one of the few joys in Seto’s life. Soooo, sameanswers as for JouKai. But Jou kind of is disposed towards casually touchingSeto anyhow though in a way that Isis is definitely not – ie. clasping Seto’sshoulder, pushing Seto in one direction or another, dragging Seto somewhere bythe arm. Isis and Seto are one of those couples who never touch each other inpublic at all, and you think they must be really frigid with each other in privateand are only together for cerebral reasons. But actually that’s not true atall, it’s just they’re just not… touchy-feely.

Who’s always snapping photos and who’s pack-ratting clutter.

Mokuba is the one with the camera. If it wasn’t for him andtheir other friends and the Kaiba Corp security cameras, there would be nophotographic record of either of them, lol.And Isis is the pack rat, I guess. She’s collected too much artwork and toomany artefacts and too many things from the museum store. A lot of it justspends time collecting dust in storage. It’s all very nice clutter though. Her and Seto are both very obnoxiously upperclass, so their house is all minimalist and everything in place.

Who hogs the bathroom in the morning and who causes toothpaste related drama.

Isis probably takes longer in the bathroom since she wearscosmetics and all, but I’m not sure either of them is a bathroom hog. And Isisboops Seto on the nose with a gob of toothpaste and then kisses it off and Setowas experiencing whiplash with the way he went from being furious to charmed inzero seconds.

What their matching costumes were for that one party.

They went to that one party as a couple of obscurehistorical or literary figures – so obscure even I have no idea who. Literallynobody got it except Malik, who thought it was dumb.

If I think they’d get married and why or why not.

Maaaaybe? In an emotional sense, I think Isis would want tobe married to Seto more than the other way around. I don’t think it’d be amake-or-break issue for her, but she might end up feeling him out on the topicinstead of the other way around, so long as there wasn’t an outside factorinvolved. Like, going with unplanned pregnancy, Seto might suck up hisreservations and suggest marriage first out of a sense of responsibility and I’m not gonna not give my child my name.And if immigration and citizenship became an issue that could be resolved withmarriage, I don’t think Seto would rule it out as a practical solution. Itdepends on where they’re living too – I think the name thing would likely be anissue with Isis too, but if they’re getting married in a place like Francewhere they don’t have to share a name and entry into the koseki isn’t an issue,it seems more likely. But, then, I’m not always sure these guys have a typicalkind of relationship that they’d understand through marriage in the firstplace. I don’t typically think Kaiba’s interested in living outside Japan, andI don’t typically think Isis is interested in living outside of Northern Africaor Western Europe – and there are lots of circumstances where it might happenanyhow, but sometimes I think they’re a kind of friends on the phone and acouple while in town kind of ship. I’m not sure either of them would feel theburdening NEED for a constant romantic or sexual relationship in their life, sothey might be satisfied with that kind of thing. Maybe when they’re old andhave more free time they want to be closer, so they move in together somewherein their sixties or seventies, but by that point who cares about marriage?They’ve got their own thing going on~ There are so many ways this could go…

Who has over a thousand unread emails in their inbox or five hundred icons on their computer desktop and how the other reacts to this gross mismanagement.

Kaiba more so than Isis, but their emails and computerdesktops are both disaster zones. Their actual desks are also disaster zones –paperclip explosion. They’re both kind of annoyed with each other about it, butreally they’re more annoyed with themselves about it. I think Isis catches onthe hypocrisy sooner than Seto, but they both learn quickly that attacking thestate of each other’s desk means attacking their own organisational failure so…

What their hidden artistic talents are and how appreciative the other is of these talents.

Isis encourages Seto’s singing A LOT. And Seto’s reallyembarrassed about it and secretly a little flattered.

What they consider each other’s most attractive quality and/or their favourite thing about the other.

Isis is so elegant. And it’s a perpetual mystery to Seto howIsis can manage people and be so in-charge while also not being a screamingbanshee. That Isis can get people to do what she wants while being so kind andcomposed is a crazy skill, and he doesn’t get it but he can get behind it. AndSeto’s belief in his own agency and self-worth and in his ability to be thechange he wants to see in the world and all that literally saved Isis fromdespair in canon. I don’t really think there’s anything about him that Isiscould possibly admire more given the amount of personal significance that heldfor her. Shit, I love this ship so much. This might be how you feel aboutrivalshipping. I want Isis and Seto to be friends so, so badly. He utterlysaved her, and I don’t think he even recognises or realises the inherent worthin himself for having grasped the life and the future she’d lost in his hands,and throwing it back to her. I want him to see and to know how precious andcomplete that gesture was – that he cannot be a failure so long as he’s savedsomebody. gdi, let them be friends!!!

Malik/Ryou.

What they watch during movie dates and what kind of snacks they get from concessions.

Malik’s favourite films are probably big budget actionyfilms starring overpowered ‘badass’ 2kul4skul antiheros, who walk away from the explosion at the end of the filmand drive off into the sunset. And Ryou just thinks this is the dumbest shitever. Ryou canonically likes the spooky scaries oc but, while it’s not going toput Malik to sleep, Malik does kind of go between being creeped out by horrorfilms and rolling his eyes because so fake – listen, he’s seen some shit. Youcannot even approach the level of FEAR. I think they sit through the moviesthey don’t particularly like for each other, but their favourites to seetogether are documentaries, since that’s something they both enjoy.Documentaries about the natural world, documentaries about scientificinvestigations, documentaries about weird phases in human history and culture –and there must be some documentaries out there about the history of the occult.They each buy a variety of popcorn and soft drinks and candy, and they don’teven ask before reaching over and stealing snacks from the other or drinkingusing the other’s straw.

Which one gets in to a fight with the other’s parents.

Do we know if Ryou’s dad is alive anymore? I’m pretty surehe is, and I’m pretty sure Malik wants to kill him for being a neglectfulsonnuvabitch. Ryou would, of course, prefer Malik not, but it’s a littleflattering Malik feels so impassioned on his behalf. (I mean, even without thathuge strike against him, Malik would still probably fight with Ryou’s dad.Self-centred cultural imperialist. Also vastly different personal and ethicalstandards.) And Malik probably also feels he has a bone to pick with Amane andRyou’s mom too. He curses them out one day. ‘You know Ryou is still sad aboutlosing you guys! How dare you walk out on him like this! He has better thingsto do than worry all the time about your sorry asses!’ And Ryou’s like, ‘That’senough.’ Really upset as he drags Malik away from the gravesite. (But, still,he’s a tiny bit flattered. That he means more to somebody alive than his motherand sister do dead.)

What kind of street performance they’d put on to raise money if they were stranded somewhere.

I’m really completely blanking on this one. Ryou wouldprobably try a combination of tarot reading and asking people, really politely,if they could spare some change. But I think Malik’s probably the one thatpulls out some improbable genius skill and accurately interprets what somerandom passer-by needs and draws in success by putting in half the effort. Andthen Ryou’s like, ‘wow’ and claps for him. I just don’t know what thatimprobable genius skill is.

How they’d be as parents if they had-a-kid/someone-forced-a-kid-on-them.

Malik would just be… so terrible, lmao. Not only do I thinkhe’s completely uninterested in fatherhood, there is also nobody too importantto not fade into utter insignificance in the face of his episodes. Even if hewas an ever present factor in a child’s life, he’s totally a Disneyland dad.Let’s go out and do the fun thing, but then he gets bored after that’s over andit doesn’t matter if the kid is tired/hungry/needy now – whatever~ I’m actuallytrying to think of a situation where Malik would ever be stuck parentingsomebody alone with Ryou and… it’s not pretty. Malik himself is aware he’s notcut out for this. Isis and Rishid are both aware he’s not cut out for this. Theonly circumstance I can think of is something terrible happening to both Isisand Rishid and Malik’s taking care of his niece(s)/nephew(s) bc he’s not goingto have them go into foster care and… it’s just terrible. He’s terrible andneglectful, and he knows it, and he’s cries daily about it, but he just- can’t. Ryou would be picking up all ofthe slack really, bless him, but even he can’t really bridge the gap. Ryouwould be a patient and kind father, if a little lacking in sturdiness. He patsthe children’s heads softly and makes really simple breakfasts and packs warmlunches. He asks Malik and the kids to take shifts making dinner, and to lookafter getting themselves through their daily routines. He asks like it’s afavour to him and, for the most part, nobody wants to disappoint him, but he’sstill not sure what to do when he’s met with resistance – it’s hard for him tobe firm. It’s hard when the kids come to him for advice too. Ryou is spreadthin, and those kids are gonna have to parent themselves to a large extent…In less terrible situations though, Ryou and Rishid would probably beco-parenting if somehow Malik or Ryou got a hold of a child. Rishid is a littlebetter at at least pretending to be firm, haha. If he talks at all it’s obvioushe’s made of marshmallow, but he can make an intimidating look and wait insilence until the other party cracks. And between Ryou and Rishid there is moreenergy to look after kiddos properly and direct attention away fromfaildad!Malik.

Who would cause the most trouble during a camping trip and how.

Tbh, I think Ryou would have absolutely no concept of whatto do on a camping trip. He stares at the fire starter and the packed tent forabout an hour trying to figure out how they work and the mysteries haven’trevealed themselves, heh. Ryou was also unsure how to handle a deer approaching him, and that time hefumbled the can opener and spilled all the veges on the ground, oh dear. Malikhas to take over the practical realities of camping, which he’s not too excitedabout, but it ends up being okay because Ryou holds his hand and points out theconstellations at night and the world is as it should be.

What they would give each other as both a serious gift and a troll gift.

I don’t think they give gifts often but, when they do, Ithink they try to make it special and personal. Like Malik probably thinks up areally nice gift for when Ryou gets his degree – a commissioned piece ofartwork, or some old tome about Ryou’s field of study, and also a bottle ofnice scotch. And Ryou probably does the same when Malik manages someaccomplishment with work – gets him a nice leather bag, or a flashy new helmetfor his motorbike. For troll gifts, they might give each other silly decorativehair ties, and Malik gets weird earrings, and Ryou gets silly pop astrologybooks that piss him off because it’s not properastrology, and Malik doesn’t even believe in any of this shit in the firstplace.

Who moves in with them as an unfortunate third wheel roommate.

I mean, I’m pretty sure Rishid lives with them for a whileat least. But it’s more like Ryou is the weird third wheel interrupting Malik& Rishid’s bromance, heh.Actually, I think Rishid probably grew up under the assumption that he wouldnever be allowed to have a wife or kids bc he was basically intended to be aforever slave to Malik and Isis, but then Malik was like, ‘wtf, no. you canhave a family if you want. Fuck everything dad said.’ And Rishid got !!! really excited!!! Omg, he never dreamed!!! He’sreally happy about this!!!And that all sounded fine and dandy to Malik until Rishid actually met somebodyand he realised that either (1) Rishid would have to move out, or (2) Rishid’swife would have to move in. And Malik hates both of these ideas, it isliterally the worst. How dare you ruin mylife like this, Rishid, after all I’ve done for you… So, yeah, there’s agood possibility Rishid’s wife is the unfortunate forth wheel roommate, lol.Malik will get used to it.Also, Yuugi’s not really an unfortunate roommate to have at all, but I reallylike that collection of Millennium Roommate comics and am very pro-Yuugi-hanging-out-with-these-two,so that could be really cute~But also, it should be Jou too. Yes.

How they feel about handholding and sudden kisses in the ear-cheek vicinity.

Yes, definitely, on both accounts. But holding hands all thetime. They hold hands loosely and then curl their fingertips around each otherwhen they stray too far away.

Who’s always snapping photos and who’s pack-ratting clutter.

Ryou takes photos periodically, but not in any kind ofmethodological or constant way. Everyone’s always smiling in the photos bc Ryouwon’t take frowny ones or surprise ones :-)And Ryou’s the pack rat. He buys a lot of crystals and gift items from thestationary shop. Textbooks and manuals. Half-used pens and pencils he picked upabsentmindedly here and there. Strange leaves and rocks he found out walking.Later he runs into certain things and wonders why he has them, but herationalises he must have kept it for a reason, and so it stays.

Who hogs the bathroom in the morning and who causes toothpaste related drama.

Malik takes forever in the bath, and forever getting readyin the morning. He’s a bit narcissistic and also gotta apply that kohl. Ryou onthe other hand showers quickly and throws on wrinkly clothes in five secondsand somehow every woman he’s ever met still falls over themselves around him.And Malik is totally a toothpaste drama queen. He gets angry and squeezes toomuch toothpaste out and then eviscerates the tube and throws it at the mirrorand is just in general as FRUSTRATE about the toothpaste as he can be aboutanything. Ryou doesn’t care though because if he made a deal out of everystupid outburst? And especially an outburst where all at stake was a tube oftoothpaste and a dirty mirror? Pls.

What their matching costumes were for that one party.

Sorry. I’m again getting too lazy to try and research the kinds of details I’d want. I feel like they’d dress up as a pair from some ancient culture’s mythology, but probably not Ancient Egyptian mythology so… I’m not sure what Ryou would like, heh.But for another party, they might go dressed up as each other. Or one dresses up as the other and they both try to trick people into thinking there are two Maliks or two Ryous. haha, this seems like a kind of concept that would appeal to Ryou again.

If I think they’d get married and why or why not.

I don’t know. I get the feeling either Ryou would be reallyfor it, or really against it – for a reason that’s more ideological than personal– and then Malik would be like ‘sure’ either way. Ryou has a whole speech abouthow marriage exists as a societal institution and why it is or isn’t importantfor them to get married as a gay couple and Malik’s like ‘sure’. ‘Sure.’

Who has over a thousand unread emails in their inbox or five hundred icons on their computer desktop and how the other reacts to this gross mismanagement.

Ryou’s the one that’s more attached to his computer, but Idon’t think he has more than a dozen desktop icons, or thirty or so unreademails. It’s very whatever. Malik has fewer emails, but he’s ignoring the onesfrom Isis’s work about how he needs to do this or that for the museum. Ryouscolds him about this.

What their hidden artistic talents are and how appreciative the other is of these talents.

Malik might be musically inclined. He knows how to play thequanun and guitar. Also, if it can be considered an art, Malik’s really good atdoing literary translation work. Ryou’s pretty impressed on both accounts. Hegets a little blown away by Malik’s casual genius.And Ryou’s pretty crafty. He might do carving or wood burning – he made all theMonster World figurines himself, yes? Malik likes looking over his shoulder andwatching the process. They both find it soothing.

What they consider each other’s most attractive quality and/or their favourite thing about the other.

I don’t know how to explain. They’re both really straightforward in different ways. I think they like what they perceive as the honestly and simplicity in the other, compared to how they, themselves, feel deceitful. There’s something really earnest in Ryou’s kindness and demeanor and passionate love of his hobbies, and there’s something really earnest and simple in Malik being able to voice what he wants - a significant amount of which is completely normal stuff like not wanting to be hoarded underground? I think they’re drawn to that in each other. Along with a kind of… underutilised intelligence they see in each other? Ah, I’m just rambling inarticulately now. Meme over. Thank you for your ask!!

#trustship #angstship #save me from this card game hell #ask

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ageeksnerdyworld · 8 years ago

Text

Save It For The Living

Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson

Word Count: 3,470

Trigger Warning: Ghosts. Haunting. Slight Violence. Slight Swearing. Grief. Ghost Possession.

A/N: Parts--X Continuing with my Ghost!Jason AU. This kinda takes place in the middle of the first one. I apologize for the first one being so shitty but I think this one’s a bit better. Well... I mean, I tried to make it better. (This was super hard but that’s what I get for trying to write a haunting & ghosty stuff from ghost’s pov.) I also have a third installment in the works so...

Summary: After arriving at Wayne Manor, and talking to Dick, Jason decides to stick around for a while. He plans on leaving after the séance and he hopes he won’t be there long. But as he waits for Bruce’s decision on the séance he accidently starts haunting the Manor.

XXXXX

Jason walks the halls of Wayne Manor late at night; unable to sleep. It isn’t that he won’t fall asleep; he simply can’t. Ever since he came back from the dead he doesn’t need to sleep. In fact all those normal things that humans do he doesn’t need to do them anymore. He spends most of his nights wandering. The noiseless emptiness of the Manor at night reminds him of his grave and it calms his mind.

Except tonight the Manor is not so quiet.

The normal creaks and settling noises fill the old estate but there’s also another noise that’s Jason’s ears pick up on. Entering the library, planning to read, the noise gets louder and Jason can tell that it’s coming from the cave. It sounds like muffled crying, but, he isn’t sure enough; barely used to his ghost powers. He goes to the grandfather clock anyway and opens the secret entrance. Jason expertly slides down the firefighter pole and lands on his feet; experience being a good teacher. Once lands he looks around the darkened area. Bruce sits at the BatComputer leaning back in the chair with his face towards the ceiling.

Bruce’s fists push hard on his eyes and cover his face to muffle his screaming cries.

Jason slowly walks over to Bruce, but, the man doesn’t notice the sharp change in temperature since the Cave is usually very cold. The teenage boy can’t stand to see his father, a man who steeled himself against so many horrors, so broken and distraught. Standing next to Bruce he puts a hand on his father’s shoulder. He can tell that the action brings a slight comfort because Bruce’s body stops shaking.

“Don’t sacrifice the rest of your life missing me.” Jason whispers.

But the message doesn't cross worlds well enough and so Bruce doesn't hear the full thing. It seems like he heard something because he shakes his head in denial. Violently jerking his shoulders, to collect himself, Bruce unknowingly shakes Jason off. Muttering to himself, “It's just your mind playing tricks,” he goes back to work. Jason grits his teeth and angrily stomps away.

He waits a day and then tries again.

XXXXX

He waits until nighttime to try again because the walls between the spirit world and the human world are weaker during the night.

And so the next night Bruce sits alone in the large-scale dining room. At the head of the lengthy, dark cherry oak, table he eats in total silence. The table is quite barren except for the bright white table runner, which lies across the middle, and Wayne’s plate of food. There was once a time when laughter would fill his house, especially at dinner, but that time has passed. Not a single burst of laughter had echoed through the halls since the day Jason died. But what Bruce refused to believe was that Jason was in the room with him; alive but not alive.

“You need to forget about me, old man! I'm dead and rotting in the ground for crying out loud! Just face it, B, there's nothing left!”

Jason stands directly behind the dining room chair that he would normally sit in, the one directly at his father’s side, yelling at Bruce. But the man doesn’t hear him so he goes about eating his dinner in silence. Furious, Jason picks up the chair and throws it. The chair lands almost clear across the room with a loud crash. Bruce stares at the shattered remains of the chair in total shock. Jason, his afterlife strength completely new to him, stares at it as well.

Shit.

I didn’t know I had that in me.

Turning back to his father he says; “You see that? There’s only more where that came from if I stay here longer. More and a hell of a lot worse. You need to let me go, B.” Bruce doesn’t hear him since voices don’t carry well across the spirit world and into the world of the living. The man gets up from his chair and walks over to the shattered remains of the one that sat next to him. He stares at the pieces for a few seconds before kneeling down and picking them up. Carrying the pieces over to the fireplace, in the library, he reaches over the metal grate and tosses them into the fire.

Jason didn’t follow Bruce into the library and so he never saw the scared and worried expression that ran across his father’s face.

XXXXX

Tired of Bruce’s flat-out refusal to acknowledge his presence Jason tries to talk to Alfred the day after the chair incident.

Alfred Pennyworth, the ever-aging and yet ageless batman to The Bat of Gotham, was alone in the BatCave replacing the front shocks on the Batmobile. The car was up on two jack stands that sat under the front end; safely resting on the cement floor. Blocks sat on either end of each of the three wheels to prevent them from moving and thus preventing the car from rolling off the jacks. The butler lay on his back on a creeper, completely underneath the car, and had a toolbox lying open within reach. The new reservoir shocks sat on a cloth, which lay on the concrete, next to the toolbox.

Jason sat on the hood of the car staring at the bit of tire that stuck out from underneath the car.

The sight of the black tire brought back something. It wasn’t a memory per se, as the more time that passed the less he remembered, but it wasn’t something else either. It was more of the feeling, or the ghost, of a memory than an actual one. There was definitely something familiar about the tire but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Alfred was hard at work removing the old shocks. He had already removed the lug nuts to get the tire off but then it was quite a process. One had to remove the bolts from the shock tower, then disconnect the shock from the suspension, and lastly remove the shock from the top and bottom bolts. So Jason waited until the butler either got too hot, or too tired, and rolled out from underneath the car.

Suddenly the sound of a man in pain, and the clank of metal falling on concrete, float up from underneath the car.

“Where is that bloody socket wrench?!”

Just as Alfred’s voice rose from under the car Jason hopped off the hood. It was the perfect opportunity to prove to Alfred that he was still here; since helping in the kitchen proved to be a total fiasco. He stood parallel to the side of the black car and looked around for the missing socket wrench. Seeing the glint of metal he kneels down to get a good look underneath the car. The socket wrench sits nearer to the rear of the car and completely out of Alfred’s reach.

Alfred curses as he accidently hits his head on the bottom of the car.

He mutters angrily under his breath as he fully rolls himself out from under the car. Getting up from the creeper Alfred sighs deeply before getting down on his hands and knees. Looking around for the socket wrench the elderly butler continues to let loose a string of mumbled swear words. He doesn’t look over to see Jason leaning against the corner wall of the Cave; holding the socket wrench with a smile on his face.

“What the bleeding hell is this? It can’t just disappear.” Alfred says as he gets back up from the floor; searching the ground for the missing wrench.

He takes a rag out of his back pocket and angrily wipes the grease off his hands. Continuing to swear like a sailor the butler looks around to see if the wrench somehow flew somewhere further than the immediate vicinity of the car. Shaking his head in confusion he walks over to the toolbox to retrieve another one. Just as he stands straight with a different wrench in his hands his eyes catch a glint of metal and he looks in the direction of the sparkle. The aged man’s faded blue eyes widen in shock.

“Looking for this?” Jason asks with a slight smirk.

Alfred blinks once and then twice. He can’t believe what he stands before his eyes. It can’t be true. The thing that stands there in front of him just can’t be real. But it can and it is because Alfred stares right at the ghost of Jason Todd; second Boy Wonder. He looks just like what one might imagine, or know, a fresh corpse would look. Forever sixteen years old the boy’s face and hands are as pale as the moonlight; his lips a grayish pink. Apple-green eyes, that used to be so bright and full of life, were now grayed over and foggy. And he’s dressed in the boring, life-less, black suit that they buried him in.

The worst part of it is that he looks so real. So real in fact that Alfred crosses over to the spirit; hand outstretched to touch him.

“Master Jason?” he whispers in disbelief.

Jason chuckles lightly, delighted that someone other than Dick can see him and says; “Yeah, Alf. It’s me. I’m still here.”

But Alfred doesn’t hear him. The elderly man stares at him with tears flooding his faded blue eyes; silently pleading. As his hand goes to wrap around the hand holding the wrench Alfred’s hand slips through the wispy, smoke-like, form of the young boy. All the butler feels is the cold metal of the wrench. He blinks hard and grimaces; fighting with himself. But it’s a losing battle and the tears stream down his face.

“I told Master Bruce to make you stay. I told him.”

Jason sits down and wraps his formless arms around Alfred; letting the old man cry, and repeat those three words, until his voice is hoarse and he has no tears left to shed.

XXXXX

Alfred was definitely convinced and so now all he had to do was get Bruce to see the truth. He tried, in the few ways that he could, to get Alfred to convince Bruce but it was no use. There was nothing that he could say, or do, that would encourage Alfred to talk to the man. And besides Batman was so consumed by his grief that he couldn’t see what was right in front of him.

So Jason followed Bruce like a shadow when he arrived home from work.

“You’re fucking with everything, old man! Don’t you get it?” he yelled as he walked in perfect step with Wayne as he walked through the Manor. Walking through the front hall Jason kept pace and talked and yelled. Even though he knew that there was no way that his father would hear him he was desperate to get something, anything, across that he just kept yelling. He wanted, no, he needed Bruce to see what he was doing. He was growing so angry and getting so full of hate; he knew something bad would happen if Bruce didn’t let him go.

“I’m supposed to be dead but your grief brought me back!”

Bruce Wayne climbed the last step and stood on the top landing of the staircase. Breathing deeply he prepared himself for the walk across the hall to the master bedroom at the very end. It always pained him to pass Jason’s old room; which he kept the same since the boy died. But for some reason unknown to him the mental pain had blossomed into a physical ache in recent days.

He didn’t know that the reason for the ache stood directly behind him.

Overcome with emotion Bruce stops at Jason’s door. There’s nothing special about it to signify that it ever belonged to anyone let alone a boy as special as Jason Todd. But it was his room and his room alone. Staring at the white painted wood Bruce puts his hand on the door and pushes it open; he had always left it unlocked in case he ever felt the need to go in. And today, for the first time ever since Jason’s death, he needed to go into the boy’s room. He stops inside the room and swears to himself that he can feel Jason’s presence there.

A fond smile forms on his face as he thinks about the first time he ever met the boy who would become his second Robin; his second son. He was in Crime Alley investigating a case, what the case was about he couldn’t remember anymore, and he had parked the Batmobile in an alleyway. And this malnourished, fearless, ink-black haired teen had the nerve to steal the tires from his car.

“You remember that, Jason?” Bruce says to empty room as he sits on the edge of the bed.

“Remember what?” the ghost of the boy in question asks.

Bruce chuckles to himself, deaf to Jason’s response, “You were so full of determination, intelligence, and love at such a young age. There was always goodness in your heart and I saw it that first night. You never stole or lied to benefit yourself; you did it to benefit others and I thought that I could give you the tools to help others as well as keep yourself safe. But I was wrong.”

Tears began to fall down Bruce’s face as sobs wracked his body. “I was so wrong and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, right! If you were so goddamn sorry then why are you fucking keeping me here?” Jason screams full of anger and hate.

“I loved you like you were my own son. And I did nothing to stop The Joker. I didn’t even try to stop you when you left. I let you thinking that it would teach you some sort of lesson that I don’t even remember now. I let you die. I let you die.”

Jason’s faded eyes go wide at the repeated sentence. He never thought that Bruce blamed himself for his horrific death at The Joker’s hands. Jason himself always thought that the evil, sadistic, disgusting clown was to blame for everything. But hearing Bruce say those words he doesn’t know what to think anymore. On some level, yes, Bruce was to blame. But that didn’t mean that Joker got off scot free, did it?

“I… I love you, son, and I miss you so much.”

He says the words even though Bruce can’t hear him; “I don’t want your love, B. Save it for the living.”

Bruce doesn’t look up from the ground and continues to cry. Fed up with the life-death world barrier Jason turns around to leave; intending to leave for good and do something else with his after-life. But as he turns around Dick Grayson, who arrived at the Manor not five minutes prior looking for Bruce and just walked in the doorway to Jason’s room, walks straight into him. The two bump into one another and Jason passes through Dick’s body like wind through the trees.

At least at first Jason thinks that he passes through Dick.

Then he realizes that he isn’t facing the doorway anymore. He’s back to facing Bruce who stills sits on the edge of the bed; oblivious to the fact that Dick Grayson entered the room. But instead of seeing the grayed-out shape of his adoptive father Jason sees Bruce Wayne in all his color and life. Confused, but also intrigued, Jason lifts his arm and looks at the palm of his hand. But his arm does not move and he does not look at the palm of his hand.

He looks down at Dick’s hand through Dick’s eyes.

Holy shit…

A theory forms in the back of his mind and Jason tests the theory by lifting a leg. Just like before his leg doesn’t move and Dick’s leg does. He turns his foot in a semi-circle on his ankle and Dick’s ankle moves. He chuckles to himself now understanding what happened when he bumped into Dick. Then he realizes what all of this means and he takes a deep breath. When he opens his mouth to speak so does Dick Grayson and the first Boy Wonder’s mouth and voice say the words he’s been dying to get through to Bruce ever since he came back to the Manor.

“Hey, old man.”

“Ja…” Bruce says as he looks up with a small spark of hope in his dark blue eyes. But the hope leaves quickly as his eyes meet Dick Grayson’s face. His eyes aren’t their normal light sky-like blue, but, are instead an odd semi-gray bluish color. But the oddity of that is lost on Bruce Wayne who is still somewhat stuck in his sadness.

“Oh… Dick. Did you just get here? Is there something you needed?”

Dick shakes his head with a slight smile. But the smile isn’t Dick at all, bright and full of life but just a tad snarky, the smile is all Jason Todd. And so are the words that flow out from Dick’s mouth.

“It’s me. And I’ve been here for a quite awhile, B.”

“Jason? But… You’re…”

“Shut it, old man,” Dick snaps suddenly; full of anger and hate. But his eyes are remorseful and the apology he utters is heartfelt.

Keep it together. Say what you have to say then leave.

“You loved me and I get that, but, I’m dead.”

Bruce tries to interrupt but Jason doesn’t give him any room to get a word in. “You need to move on. I’m trying, but, your grief and your undying love is keeping me here. I know it is; it has to be. I know Dick asked you to do a séance; do it. It might you. We could talk better if you do. But get this straight, old man. I don’t need your love, anymore. Save that for Alfred, Dick, Barbara and everybody else. Save that for Gotham for all I care.”

“Save it for the living; they need it.”

With that Jason turns around and pushes through Dick with all his might; breaking off the connection. He looks back to see Dick return to himself and then he exits his old room; leaving the two men to talk. He walks through the Manor to the rear bay windows and walks through the glass and out into the sunlight. Even though he can’t feel it on his skin anymore standing there on the Manor’s back lawn he feels a small semblance of calm and happiness.

“Jason, I just want to know…”

Dick Grayson straightens himself and looks down at Bruce with a confused look. The color had returned to his light sky-blue eyes the moment Jason left his body. The confusion fades from his face and is replaced with a sad half-smile. Bruce wipes the dried tears from his eyes and forcing newer ones to stay behind his eyes. He gets up from the bed and stands tall and straight; his face a mask of cold composure.

“What are you doing in here, Bruce?” Dick asks with genuine concern.

“Nothing. I was… it was nothing, Dick,” he answers sternly.

Dick shrugs and the two quickly leave the room. But before Bruce closes the door he rushes back inside and fixes the portion of the bed that wrinkled when he sat on it. Then he leaves again and shuts the door behind him. Wanting to keep up the charade of skepticism for just a while longer Bruce doesn’t say anything to Dick about seeing Jason’s ghost. He walks down the hallway and almost runs down the staircase rushing to find Alfred.

Bruce makes it to Alfred before Dick enters the living room.

Alfred stood at the bookshelf; straightening some of the shelves. Unbeknownst to both Alfred, and Bruce, Jason sat in one of the library’s large black leather armchairs. He sat with his legs tucked underneath him and a stack of books on the floor within reach. Bruce approaches the butler and doesn’t even pretend to have some other motive to speak with him. Bruce quickly asks him if he saw or heard anything that might’ve changed his mind about Jason. The man’s voice is obviously strained and ragged from crying. The sound of it slightly startles Alfred but looking at Bruce’s red-rimmed eyes, and the tear tracks on his cheeks, he decides to tell the other man the truth. Upon hearing the elderly butler’s confession on seeing the boy’s ghost Bruce confesses to Alfred as well.

“What are we supposed to do now, Alfred?” Bruce asks; pleading for guidance.

“The only thing we can, sir. We take Master Grayson up on his offer for a séance.”

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