#RIP Marnie and Hook. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

direnightshade · 3 years

Text

Inferno

Warnings: Violence / Gun Violence, Post-Apocalyptic Themes, Angst, Unhappy Ending, Death / Major Character Death, Pandemic, Major Injury Word Count: 6,705

As always, you can find this over on AO3.

----------------

An arid landscape stretches as far as the eye can see. The familiar rows of brownstones and businesses of Brooklyn have long since vanished, replaced by a sun-baked desert. On the horizon, two figures stand facing one another, their muscles tensed and their focus solely on the other. Neither notices Sackler’s advance toward them.

The leather palm of the fingerless glove that the gunslinger wears creaks with the brief flex of fingers. You are itching to reach for the weapon holstered at your hip, eager to pull the warm steel from its confines to unleash the fury that you’ve been waiting to deliver for years now. But now, you know, is not the time. You will not be the first to make the move. No, this is dependent upon him , the man dressed in all black who stands opposite you with a look of smug determination.

The rough terrain crunches beneath Adam’s shoes and the dust that kicks up clings to them with each step forward that he takes, but as he draws nearer he notes how the sky grows increasingly darker. Large, grey clouds, swollen with an impending storm darken the sky and blot out the sun until a familiar rumble in the distance can be heard. It isn’t long until the first bolt of lightning strikes, effectively halting his steps. The electric current crackles and sizzles on its path downward and it’s then that Sackler realizes the strangest thing: the bolt does not disappear into the ground but rather into the fingertips of the man in black who now holds his hands upwards towards the sky.

Adam’s gaze shifts to where you stand. Your hand has since migrated to the gun at your hip and your thumb has lifted the leather snap of the holster, making for a quicker, easier draw of the weapon. It’s like slow motion, watching the scene unfold before him as your head swivels while your hand grips the gun and lifts in one fluid motion. With a squeeze of the trigger, a bullet rips through the air, the bang of the gun mirroring the echo of the thunder that accompanies a second bolt of lightning that careens down towards the parched Earth.

The moment that the bullet nears the man in black, it’s as if someone has flicked a switch and time has resumed its correct rate of movement once more as the man lowers his hands and faces his palms out towards you, both deflecting the bullet and sending a stream of electric current in your direction. Your eyes widen and just as the current reaches you...

The familiar blare of an alarm clock startles Sackler awake, immediately causing his eyelids to part to now take in the sight of the stark white ceiling above him. Gone is the dry landscape of some foreign desert; he has found his way back to the comfort of home. A large hand settles atop his chest and he takes a moment to puff out his cheeks and exhale a long breath whilst he feels the steady rhythm of his beating heart beneath his touch. This is not the first that he has dreamt of you and the man in black, nor does he suspect that it will be the last, but this time, he realizes, was different. This time the man in black had seemed to have the upper hand, something in which he’d never managed to in dreams prior.

Sackler had never believed much in astrology or dream meanings and the like, but the brevity and the sheer vividness of each one chipped away at his stance little by little until finally he’d found himself up and out of bed, pouring over page after page of varying dream meanings. From the cracked, barren wasteland of the desert to the storm that raged above, every meaning—if Sackler looked close enough— could feasibly be tied back to one problem or another in his life. But even with the research and the meanings loosely tied to reality, he still found the tiniest seed of doubt sprouting in his gut—a little flutter of worry that something just wasn’t quite right .

The scrape of a wooden chair across the linoleum floor sounds out into the small apartment when he rises up from his spot at the table, suppressing the unease for the time being. Sackler grabs his backpack and slings a strap over his shoulder before making the short stroll across the space to retrieve his bike. He’d forget about this for now, chalking it up to nothing more than a dream. Because that’s all it could possibly be...couldn’t it?

***

“You’re coming tonight, right?” Shoshana stands beside Adam, her hand gently swirling the wooden stirrer to mix her cream into the coffee that she holds.

The noncommittal hum that she receives in response isn’t to her liking, however. She huffs and nudges Adam’s ribs with her elbow, careful to not waste a single precious drop of the still piping hot liquid.

When Adam turns his head to look at her, she speaks up again. “You have to come! Marnie already said you’d told her you’d be there.”

“Yeaaaah, yeah. I’ll be there,” he replies, eyeing the board overhead that contains a multitude of hand-written items available to order. A brief moment of silence follows and then: “Wait, what time does it start?”

“Adam!”

A pinch is delivered to his side, eliciting a dramatic yelp in response to minimal pain. “Wh— ow! What?!”

“It’s six o’clock. And don’t be late,” Shoshana says, pausing momentarily to blow gingerly across the heated surface of her coffee before taking a long, thoughtful sip. “You know how Marnie gets.”

Sackler’s lips purse, thumbs hooking around the straps of his backpack while his eyes continue to peruse the board overhead. Another moment passes before he feels a nudge, this time another elbow, in his side. “Why bother, just get it black like you always do.”

He huffs out an amused breath and smiles down at Shoshana who mirrors the expression prior to excusing herself and pivoting on her heels to make her exit. He watches as she steps out of the door, the bell overhead ringing to signal her vacation of the premises; when the familiar blonde head of hair disappears among the crowd on the other side of the exterior wall’s windows, Adam’s gaze slides over to the clock that adorns the nearby wall. One thirty.

With a sigh, he turns back to face Ray who is already in the process of sliding him the usual: one black coffee in a plain off-white insulated cup complete with lid. Tossing down enough money to cover both the coffee and tip, Adam flashes Ray a grin and turns to follow Shoshana’s path back out onto the street.

***

The unassuming brick building that sits on Willoughby is lit by a pair of skyward pointing spotlights, illuminating the red brick against the dark backdrop of nightfall. Inside, the stark white of the walls and grey concrete floors reflect the blinding fluorescents overhead. Art is dotted sparsely along the walls, ranging from geometric abstraction to realism. Hushed tones fill the space as would-be patrons, guests, and painters alike all speak to one another among the art.

The soles of a pair of scuffed tan leather boots carry Adam further into the gallery while his gaze sweeps the area, roaming from one piece to another. The hands that are shoved deep into his one good pair of pants flex within the stiff material of his pockets as he stops in front of a painting by someone with a name he doesn’t recognize. Like nearly every other piece of art in this place that he’s laid eyes upon, this one is loud; bold, bright colors are splashed across the canvas in such a way that it almost appears angry, as if someone had been in the throes of being upset when making this. Though, what the fuck does he know about art?

Adam snorts to himself and pivots, stepping away from this piece and moving on, one after another until…

“Hooooly shiiiiiit,” he murmurs quietly to himself.

“It’s a masterpiece isn’t it,” says a familiar voice abruptly to his right. “I’d say it’s my best work yet.”

Sackler’s gaze slides over to the nameplate that sits beneath the painting, though he doesn’t have to. He knows precisely this belongs to by their voice alone.

“I call it The Duality of Life and Death,” says Booth with an air of smugness. “You see, the Gunslinger, they’re the embodiment of life; all light and warm tones, whereas Death here is in all black, being kept at bay by the Gunslinger’s trusty weapon.”

He cannot believe what he is seeing. In fact, he is so focused on the painting before him that Sackler fails to register any and all words that leave Booth’s mouth. It is as if this artwork has been pulled straight from his most recent dream. Everything, right down to the bolts of lightning, tinged purple by the storm, is an accurate portrayal of the vividness of the dream he’d lived through the night prior. Impossible. And yet…

“Shut up,” Sackler mumbles just loud enough for Booth to hear.

“Excuse me?” Booth balks at the audacity of Adam’s sudden intrusion upon his well-rehearsed pitch and not so modest boasting about his talents.

“How much?”

The conversation lapses, and for a moment, all that can be heard is the sound of the murmurs of the other patrons. Booth huffs out a laugh, unsure of whether or not this is a genuine inquiry.

“Too much for you.”

“How much,” Adam asks again, this time more forcefully. His head turns and, for the first time since Booth’s arrival, he directs his full attention to the man beside him.

Another brief silence follows. “Fifteen hundred.”

“I’ll give you seven,” Adam counters.

A scoff follows the attempted negotiation. “Absolutely not. Fifteen hundred and not a penny less.”

Sackler’s jaw twitches in irritation and he knows without a shadow of a doubt in his mind that Booth is taking him for a ride with the price, but he simply cannot walk away from this. Not when the coincidence is far too great for him to ignore.

“Fine. You have yourself a deal.”

***

Hours later, Adam finds himself back in his apartment fifteen hundred dollars lighter and one painting in hand. Having disrobed down to the grey pair of boxers he still dons, he settles his weight heavily onto the edge of his mattress, his eyes fixated on the acquired painting that now hangs on the wall directly opposite of where he sits.

It’s uncanny, he thinks to himself, unable to shake the familiarity of it. Just as in his dream, the Gunslinger— you —are looking at him, and from even this great distance, your stare seems to pierce right through him. He stares and he stares and he stares until finally, sleep begins to wrap its tendrils around him, pulling him further down into a groggy state until he gives in and lies back against the mattress.

His eyes slowly slide closed, thoughts still on the painting, on his dream, on you . In the distance, an impending storm rumbles.

***

‘As many of you in the city have noticed, there has been a rather unusual weather pattern that’s settled over us, bringing with it an unsettling amount of rain and near hurricane level winds. Our storm tracker seems to indicate that this weather pattern is swirling in place, only delivering more debilitating rain that’s quickly turned to flash flooding in the area. The Hudson and East Rivers have both begun to breach their respective banks. But this isn’t the only unusual thing to come from the storm. There have also been strange electromagnetic pul—’

The nearby lamp flickers and then shuts off just as the television screen turns black, cutting off the meteorologist mid forecast. This has been, provided Sackler’s been keeping count accurately, the twelfth time this morning that the power has cut out. If this time is like the others, he can expect it to come back within the next five minutes.

He puffs his cheeks out prior to exhaling a deep breath, his eyes casting downward towards the phone in his hand—the very one he’d only just allowed himself to be talked into purchasing a mere three days ago. A large thumb taps the darkened glass screen to bring it to life. Twenty-eight percent, reads the small battery icon at the upper righthand corner. He sighs, opting not to waste more of the battery life by calling anyone. There’s no use, he knows. Instead, he tosses the device to the side, watching as it bounces against the worn cushions of the couch he sits on.

Outside, the storm rages on.

Rising up from his spot on the couch, the old wooden floorboards creaking beneath his weight, he crosses the small space of his living room to approach the window that gives him the perfect vantage point of the street below. Rain batters against the window, blurring his view, but below he spots a figure striding with purpose down the street.

Behind him, the microwave beeps and the light of his lamp clicks back on with the sudden return of electricity. Static sounds from the direction of the television and then:

‘In other parts of the world we’re seeing an emergence of a previously unknown virus. To date, there are no cases that we are aware of within the United States, but the CDC is urging anyone with the following symptoms to make a report—’

The story fades into the background as the figure draws closer and grows more visible even through the streaks of water that continue to distort the view from the glass in front of him. His eyes widen in recognition of the long, brown leather duster that hangs down nearly to the pavement. The holster isn’t visible beneath it, but the gun held firmly in hand is a dead giveaway.

“You,” he murmurs to himself in complete disbelief.

Without hesitation, and without allowing his mind to catch up with the actions he now takes, he pushes himself away from the window and makes a break for the apartment’s door, leaving behind the nearly dead phone on the couch.

***

ONE YEAR LATER

Plants of varying nature have long since begun to sprout through the cracks in sidewalks and pavement alike, their tendrils crawling up brick exteriors of buildings and brownstone homes. The hustle and bustle that the city is known for has quieted to a deafening degree; where once there were horns and shouts, now there is nothing more than the occasional whipping of the wind and, if one were so lucky, the rare sound of another survivor’s voice.

The illness that had swept across the globe crippled economies and decimated nations, including this very one. Businesses shuddered, families suffered, and in the end, no hope for a cure had been found.

Except for you, that is.

Ever since your arrival to the city where the man in black has taken up residence, it has been claimed by you that you are the only one who can put a stop to the man who’d brought a near end to civilization as Sackler knows it. Back in the realm from whence you have emerged, you have failed to stop him once, but this time, you vow, you will not falter in your mission.

The unmistakable metallic sound of a can being opened can be heard nearby. Sackler turns his head to look over at where you sit, your body curled over the pot that sits atop the lit tabletop burner. His face scrunches in distaste when he watches you dump the tin of beans unceremoniously into the empty pot in order to heat them up. It is the involuntary sound of displeasure that emanates from the back of his throat that captures your attention.

“What,” you ask as your head lifts to look in his direction.

He huffs out a breath and rolls his shoulders into a nonchalant shrug just as his attention shifts to the window of the apartment you find yourselves in currently. His head shakes once, twice, and then: “I don’t think I have it in me to eat another can of fuckin’ beans. At this point I think my blood’s made of it.”

The soft snort that emanates from where you stand pulls his attention back to you. He hadn’t heard you pick up the wooden spoon that you now hold, but he watches as you gently stir the warming beans, bringing them up to the desired temperature.

“It’s not like we have many options these days.”

Sackler notes how you refrain from looking in his direction, and instead direct your reply downward towards the soon to be meal. He grits his teeth together, jaw muscles ticking in visible agitation at the remark. It’s been one year, three hundred and sixty-five days, since the man in black’s arrival to Earth and only you, or so you’ve claimed, are the one that can stop him—only you can stop the sickness that he’s wrought on the planet and its people, and yet here you stand in his shitty apartment’s kitchen of all places, cooking some fucking beans.

It’s enough to drive him mad.

“We might not have options, but you sure as shit do,” he snaps, now having lost his patience. “That man, or whatever the fuck he is,” he says, pointing a finger in the direction of the window, “is out there. We know where he is, where he’s been for the last year and still you haven’t done shit about it!”

The wooden spoon once held in your hand now clatters against the side of the pot, the beans forgotten as Adam watches you twist off the flame and turn to face him with a sneer.

“I told you, it isn’t that simple. He’s dangerous , and he’s stronger than he’s ever been. And in case you haven’t noticed—”

“All the more reason to get it done, Kid! No use standing around here wasting time.”

“—I’m the last one of my kind left!”

Silence fills the space when your respective outbursts subside, and it isn’t until then that Sackler notices that you’ve taken steps to bring yourself closer to him. He wonders if you’ve noticed it too. Adam watches as your lips press together into a thin line, evidence of your displeasure with him and the situation the two of you find yourself in.

In a moment of seemingly perfectly choreographed movements, the two of you reach for one another, hands grasping at fabric, skin, anything and everything that you can reach. A groan of satisfaction tumbles from Sackler’s mouth the moment that he draws your body closer until you are firmly pressed against him, the sound greedily inhaled by you amidst a clashing of lips.

***

Hours later, when the light sheen of sweat covering your bodies has cooled, and the warmth of your skin is pressed against his, Adam turns his head and deposits a kiss to the crown of your own. In immediate response, you exhale a barely audible sigh.

There is a palpable energy that fills the space now; it is not the same explosive kind from earlier, the very one that led the two of you to the mattress you currently find yourselves on, no… This time it is different, uncomfortable. Sackler’s lips press together briefly, his jaw working in the familiar way you’ve come to notice in the short span of time that you’ve known him.

“I can practically hear the gears grinding in that head of yours, Kid,” he murmurs.

In reply you hum, though a moment of silence elapses before you respond. “We can’t,” you begin, the two words spoken with a quietness to rival your earlier sigh. Quickly, you lapse into more soundless thought.

Sackler’s arm tightens around your form, holding you closer to him; it is a wordless response that speaks volumes. Don’t , it says. Let us have this one moment of peace before the inevitable storm comes raging in and one of us finds ourselves swept away .

“Adam…” His name is a whisper, spoken so softly that if there were any other remaining souls in this building, not one would hear.

“Don’t,” he exclaims more forcefully than he’d intended. The words that follow are quieter, mournful, even. “Just don’t…” A shaky breath is inhaled and Sackler closes his eyes, an all too familiar ache beginning to make its home in the depths of his chest.

Beside him, bedsheets rustle as you lift yourself up out of the warmth and comfort of his embrace. Slowly, Adam’s eyelids part to look up only to find that you have propped yourself up by your elbow to peer down at him with a pained expression etched onto your features. A hand lifts and his eyes flutter closed once more when the sensation of your fingertips delicately tracing his cheek can be felt.

Such a tender touch only seems to feed the ache.

“We can’t be together.” The pain that he feels seems to be echoed in your own statement. It is a realization that drives the proverbial knife deeper and then twists. Your fingertips skim along his lips which now quiver with unshed sobs for a love that has died before it has even had a chance to bloom. “It’s too dangerous.”

A large hand wraps around your wrist, keeping you in place so that he may press kiss after kiss into your open palm in what feels like a desperate bid to prevent this moment from fading from existence. Adam shakes his head and slides your hand over to rest against his cheek, nuzzling into the touch before opening his eyes once more. This time when he looks up at you, he can see the tears that have gathered at your waterline, threatening to spill over onto your cheeks at any moment.

You exhale a trembling breath and when you close your eyes, the tears fall freely. Sackler lifts his hands, thumbs wicking away the moisture from your face as best he can. With a gentle hush, he guides you down to lay against him again, this time with your cheek pressed against his chest.

“You understand that, right,” you ask through the sobs that now begin to rack your body.

In response, Adam wraps an arm around your back, his other hand now cradling your head as you rest against him. “Yeah, Kid… I do,” he whispers in reply, his own tears now blurring his vision.

***

A rustling of wrappers can be heard, followed by the unmistakable sound of a zipper. When Adam cracks one eye open, it’s to find that the light of an early dawn has begun to creep its way through the sheer curtain draped across his window, spilling in to illuminate your form as you work to close his backpack. He groans and lifts a hand to rub his palm against one eye, working the grogginess from it whilst he begins to sit upright.

“Whasssgoin’on,” he slurs, voice still thick with sleep.

He’s met by the thump of the backpack as it lands against his chest, and coughing out a breath, he wraps his arms around the material in immediate reaction.

“Get up,” you say, now turning your attention to your own gear, ensuring that you have everything that you need. “Get dressed and make sure you take that with you. We’re heading out.”

“Out?” The sleep that had laced his voice has dissipated entirely, now replaced with a brief bout of confusion. “Out where?”

Sliding your gun into its holster, you pivot simultaneously, the soles of your boots scuffing the old worn hardwood floor. “We have a stop to make. I need more ammunition and then we’re headed into Manhattan.”

It takes him a moment, but when the weight of your words hit him with full force, it’s impossible for you to miss the look of recognition that passes across his face. He scrambles from the bed, momentarily discarding the backpack in order to grab his clothes from the pile he’d discarded on the floor just a day earlier. At long last, after everything he has endured over the course of the last year, after everything that you have endured, as well as the two of you together, the day has finally arrived. And yet…

There is a small seed of hesitation that has sewn itself into the depths of his belly, sprouting up into worry.

***

Brooklyn remains as quiet as it has been for this past year; a gentle breeze cuts through a brownstone-lined street, rustling Sackler’s hair and causing the near floor-length duster that you wear to billow in its wake. The soles of your boots scuff along the pavement, kicking up pebbles that have torn up from the once heavily-traveled road. Beside you, Sackler adjusts the strap of the backpack that dangles precariously from his shoulder.

“You know you aren’t going to find any ammunition in any of the stores around here.” The words leave him matter-of-factly, as if he knows this to be true.

Your head swivels to look over at him and your eyes squint slightly as if to ask for further elaboration on the subject at hand. In automatic response, his hands lift, palms facing outward as if in defense though the two of you carry on walking alongside one another.

“Gun laws,” he says. “They’re super strict here.”

You huff out a grunt in reply and mutter a barely audible ‘that’s fine’ in return to which Adam quickly follows with: “T-that’s fine? What do you mean that’s fine? Hey! Hey , where are you going?!”

Stunned into momentary silence, Adam watches as you veer off course and make a beeline for one of the passing brownstones that sits vacant. “I don’t need a store,” you call out from over your shoulder.

With a swift, solid kick of your boot to the center of the door, you manage to dislodge the lock and allow yourself entry. The interior of the home is dark in spite of the sun that hangs high overhead just outside—a byproduct of city living. Upon further investigation, the home looks tidy, orderly, as if whomever used to live here locked up and left long before the sickness that swept the nation one year ago was able to settle in and take hold of the building’s occupants.

“Up here,” Adam says, the sudden boom of his voice cutting through your thoughts.

He is already halfway up the wooden staircase that leads to the second floor by the time you look over, taking the steps two at a time to reach the landing. It isn’t long until you are close behind, following him into one of the spacious bedrooms. Sackler’s backpack falls to the floor with a light thump just as he all but dives to the floor, his lean body stretching out as he peers beneath the bed. A hand reaches under, retrieving a small black case along with two boxes.

“Check these.” He rises up from his spot on the floor and immediately pivots to make his way into the large walk-in closet.

The sound of hangers sliding along metal rods can be heard as he pushes row after row of clothes aside in order to hunt down what he suspects will be a second weapon. By the time that he re-emerges, it is to find that you have scattered the boxes of ammunition from beneath the bed on top of the duvet. Beside the discarded ammo sits the black box, now opened to reveal Glock.

“This isn’t what I need,” you reply before turning your head to look over at where he stands at the threshold of the closet. “But that is.”

Just as you nod your head to the boxes of ammunition belonging to the very same revolver that sits on your hip, you stride across the expanse of the bedroom to approach him. Sackler hands the boxes to you without hesitation, watching as you squirrel the individual bullets away in the bandolier that sits snugly around your waist.

When the last of the ammunition has been tucked away, you lift your gaze to find Sackler staring back at you with an expression that you can’t quite pin down. There is an air of wistfulness about it and something else you cannot put your finger on.

“Ready,” you ask, lacing the question with an enthusiasm that is so manufactured that it feels bitter and foreign in your mouth.

Sackler nods but does not respond verbally. Instead, he turns and makes his way out of the bedroom first with you following close behind. Back by the bed, still lying on the floor, remains the backpack that Sackler had brought with him on the first leg of your journey.

***

Even from the Brooklyn Bridge, it is impossible to miss how the tallest residential building in the whole of the city looms above all else. But here, now, standing just beneath it on Park Avenue, makes all other vantage points pale in comparison. The front wall of the building that once housed luxury accommodations is all glass, pure and pristine—not a single pane disturbed or broken, unlike the remainder of the buildings that have gone neglected since the planet’s downfall.

“This is the one.”

“Yeeeeah.” Adam’s head tips back, eyes squinting to peer up at the sheer size of the building. “I figured.” When he rights his stance, head turning now to look over at you, he rolls a shoulder into a shrug. “Nothing says ‘the villain’s in here’ like the only untouched building in all of New York, and my guess, the world.”

You hum out an unintelligible reply—a grunt of sorts, something that requires no retort from Sackler, but receives one nonetheless.

“Hey,” he calls out, a hand snapping out to grasp your upper arm just as you begin to take steps towards the building’s front door. Only when you turn to face him again does he ease his grasp and then release it entirely. “Whatever happens in there—”

“Adam…”

“—whatever happens in there…” Sackler pauses, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows harshly, eyes searching your own. “That son of a bitch is dead, yeah?”

He watches as your head nods, albeit a bit more slowly than he’d like. When he says nothing, you nod again, this time with more conviction. “Yes.”

In turn, Sackler nods and utters a ‘ good ’ before following you through the front door. The lobby of the building is just as the outside stands: untouched and in good condition just as the day that it had been prior to the man in black’s arrival to the city. Despite the lack of people in the space—security or otherwise—it’s impossible to miss the hum of anticipation that shoots through the air like electricity. Every hair on the back of Adam’s neck seems to rise with the feeling, and his eyes dart around the room whilst he continues to follow your lead to the nearby staircase.

“Woah, hold on,” he whispers as the stairwell’s door clicks shut softly behind him, his hand once again reaching to grasp your arm to effectively stop your advance towards the stairs.

“What?!” The words that you hiss out in reply echo slightly against the concrete walls and floor alike.

A gentle tug pulls you closer, and though you don’t resist, it isn’t lost on Adam how your eyes narrow ever so slightly at the abrupt halt of your plans. “Something’s... off … It,” he starts, sighing and releasing his hold on you to run a hand through his hair in exasperation. “It feels wrong.”

When your brows crease in momentary confusion, he elaborates.

“You don’t think it’s weird that no one’s here? There’s no, I don’t fucking know, evil henchmen or some shit to stop us?”

A huff of air is expelled just as you turn your gaze upward as if to look to the floors above where you will undoubtedly find the man at long last. Adam watches as your lips press together momentarily before you look back to him and whisper once more. “Does it really matter? He’s here,” you insist, your own hand reaching to grasp his forearm. “You feel it. I know you do.”

When silence fills the space between you, Adam nods once in affirmation to your statement. He does feel him, it’s impossible not to. The crackle of electricity in the air has only grown more intense even only having moved a few hundred feet upon entry into the building.

“Come on,” you say, loosening yourself from his hold just as your hand slips from his arm simultaneously. “Let’s finish this.”

***

Thunder rumbles beyond the panes of glass that makeup the exterior walls by the time the two of you reach your destination and the final floor of the eighty-five story building. The door staircase’s door leads to a small hall that in turn leads to a solid black door complete with a tiny peep hole that the former occupants undoubtedly used to peer out at any visitors. Sackler surmises that now such a peep hole is useless and unused.

The feeling of unease that has settled into the depths of his stomach only seems to grow when you reach for the handle, turning it without resistance and finding that the door is unlocked. It’s a trap, he wants to call out, but that—he knows—would only serve to verbalize the obvious. You are just as aware as he, and yet…

The two of you push onward, stepping into the penthouse apartment that overlooks the entirety of Manhattan. Beyond the panes of glass that makeup the living area, Central Park stands empty, bathed in the purple light of the rapidly impending storm. To your left, movement captures both yours and Sackler’s attention and when your heads collectively turn to find the source, a sweeping sense of dread drapes over Adam like the heaviest of blankets.

“I see you’ve finally found me.” The soles of the boots the man in black wears, land heavily against the cool marble tile that covers the floor where he walks. “It only took you, oh,” he pauses briefly, pretending to check his watch, “a little over a year now. I thought your tracking skills were far superior than that, Gunslinger. Perhaps I give you too much credit.”

“You don’t give them enough,” Adam sneers, taking his place beside you.

The man’s gaze slides from you to Sackler and back again. There is a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth before his lips part, stretching wide across his face in a toothy grin. Laughter fills the space as his head is thrown back momentarily. Though the sound fades, the amused grin remains when the man’s attention is turned to you, effectively dismissing Sackler.

“Who is this? Is this the reason you’ve taken your sweet old time?” The man tuts in disapproval, his gaze flitting to where Adam stands, sizing him up with a single sweep down and then back up again. “You always did have a weak heart,” he mocks. “It’s a wonder you are the last one of your kind standing.”

The clouds that roll in now block the sun entirely, casting a dark shadow over the city that spills over into the living room and draping itself across the three of you. Outside, lightning strikes nearby as thunder rolls ominously overhead. The hand that rests at your side twitches in eager anticipation of the quick draw that will undoubtedly occur sooner rather than later.

“You’re wrong.”

The man’s gaze once again slides over to where Adam stands, hands balled into fists as if in preparation for the fight to come. The charged air seems to thicken to an uncomfortable degree and for a fleeting moment, Sackler wonders if this sullen energy is radiating from the man himself.

Another strike of lightning illuminates the space, followed rapidly by another that seems to pass through the nearby floor to ceiling length windowpane. With a wave of an outstretched hand, the man sends the bolt in your direction, seeking to put an end to this before it can even begin. Your hand lifts to retrieve the gun from your holster, but quick of a draw as you are, not even you are quick enough for the event that unfolds before your very eyes.

Whilst the bolt comes careening towards you, a large body steps in front at the last possible moment, absorbing the blow.

“No!” You cry out in disbelief, pulling the gun free and firing off three shots in rapid succession, two of which hit their intended target.

As the man in black clutches at his torso, stumbling back behind a nearby piece of furniture for cover, you collapse down onto your knees beside a wounded Sackler.

“No, no, no, no, no, Adam.” The gun in your hand clatters to the floor heavily whilst your hands now roam over his body frantically. You know that there is nothing you can do, the blow has been dealt and the damage has been done. No amount of wishing can save him now.

Sackler chokes, splutters, and wheezes as he struggles to catch what little breath he can. “Kid,” he manages to gasp through labored breaths.

An anguished sob sounds from the back of your throat upon hearing him. Tears begin to fill your vision, spilling over onto your cheeks as your head tips forward to rest your forehead against his shirt near the blackened edges where the lightning bolt made contact with his chest.

“Kid,” he rasps again.

A large hand settles at the back of your head when you lift it just enough to peer down at him. He’s gone impossibly pale, and the realization makes your heart shatter into the smallest pieces imaginable. He is, you know, on the verge of death.

“I—”

“No, Adam. Don’t,” you hush softly, bringing your own hand to his hair, brushing it back from his clammy forehead. “Just rest, you’re going to be okay.” The words taste bitter in your mouth, like ash after a fire has decimated everything in its wake.

There is a slight shake of his head, and the hand at the back of your own presses just enough pressure for you to follow his lead, allowing him to draw you closer. Weakly, he lifts his head up from the ground to meet you on your descent. The tears come effortlessly now when your lips meet, and the hands that once roamed his form now hold his face as you kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

“Kid, I—” A series of coughs wrack his body as you help to lower his head back down to the ground. “I. Kid.” Sackler’s eyes roll as he inhales an arduous breath. “I lov—”

The breath leaves his body in a rush, chest stilling and body falling limp.

The golden rays of the setting sun part through the black clouds and cast themselves upon the scene as if to highlight the tragedy that’s just unfolded. But now is not the time for mourning; there will be a time and a place for this later, though every fiber of your being screams for you to stay with him now.

Rapidly you blink, seeking to dispel the tears from your eyes and rid yourself of your blurred vision. Slowly, you push yourself up and onto your feet, grabbing your gun as you go, your gaze still focused on the now lifeless body that lies in front of you. This mission, the one you’d been on solely for yourself and the realm from whence you have traveled from, is now a quest for the man you’d come to love so completely. For him you will do this. For him you will see to it that the man in black will be no more, that order will be restored to Adam’s world once more and that things will revert to the way they once were.

This will be his legacy.

-------------------------

Tagging my fellow Sackler lovers!

@livelongdolan @daydreamsofren @crimsoncounties @caillea @candycanes19 @gurl-ly @duty-isnt-always-honour @exit-goat @little-laamb @themuseic @kylosbitch @caelum-phyriina-vermillon @desiraypark @mariesackler @millenialcatlady @mazeltovcocktail555 @historyandfandoms50 @leatherboundbirate @fathersonandhouseofgucci @xxcatrenxx @alpha-lobito @cornmousequeen @tashastrange89 @10blurredsmoke10

If you'd like to be tagged on works going forward, give me a shout!

#Adam Sackler #Sackler #Adam Sackler x Reader #Sackler x Reader #Gunslinger!Reader #Adam Sackler x Gunslinger!Reader #Sackler x Gunslinger!Reader #Dark Tower AU #cw: violence #cw: gun violence #cw: angst #cw: unhappy ending #cw: pandemic #cw: major injury #cw: death #cw: character death #adcu fic exchange

52 notes · View notes

todisturbtheuniverse · 6 years

Text

FIC: Love Is A Free Washer/Dryer

Rating: T Pairing: Shane/Female Farmer Tags: Fluff, Friendship, Friends to Lovers, Developing Relationship Word Count: 3000 Summary: Farm life doesn't come ready-made with modern conveniences, but Lydia's laundry situation evolves over the years. Strangely, every step of the way seems to mark a milestone in her relationship with Shane. Also on AO3. Notes: This is a story about laundry. ¯\_(ツ)_/��

When Lydia had lived in the city, when she’d worked at Joja, she’d carted a Ziploc bag of quarters up and down six flights of stairs to do her laundry—packing the machine as full as she could, making those two dollars stretch, and who cared if some of her towels ended up with weird splotches of color on them from being mixed with the wrong stuff? No one was looking at her towels. She worked too much to have people over, anyway.

She worked too much to have people.

And then, the move—to a ramshackle little cottage where she was lucky that the plumbing wasn’t in such bad shape. Robin told her so, anyway, upon initial inspection, and Lydia, knowing exactly nothing about pipes except to pour some Drano down them occasionally, had to take her word for it. Robin didn't charge her anything, and if she was trying to rip Lydia off, she'd have done that, right?

She washed her underwear in the sink when it was too dark to keep clearing the land or planting or watering or fertilizing or or or—and she leaned against the countertop to stay upright by the light of the single lamp. Her eyes were always at risk of closing. She'd woken up in the middle of the night on the floor more than once, freezing. Never bruised, so clearly some part of her had made a decision to lie down instead of another part of her making a decision to fall down. Her wardrobe had been replaced: jeans and flannels and t-shirts to match the new lifestyle, the old "sensible" high heels and pencil skirts and satin blouses left behind at her dad's. These new things could survive soaking in the ancient claw-foot tub and then being hung to dry on the line behind her house when the sun was hot enough.

There were no neighbors to see her kangaroo-patterned underwear flapping in the breeze.

Well, there was one neighbor. By some stretch of the word.

"Hey," Shane said, his voice a little gravelly and resentful. "Marnie asked me to deliver your new chicken."

His eyes were squinted up and red-rimmed in the bright summer sunshine. She felt a little red-rimmed herself, mostly from staying up until one in the morning to hang her laundry out on the lines before collapsing in bed. No big deal, she’d thought. No one would come by and see all her unmentionables.

She’d entirely forgotten the chicken.

Best to just forget the underwear, too. Either he’d look over to the left and see them, or he wouldn’t. He was rude, but probably not rude enough to comment on her choice of patterns.

"Perfect, thanks," she said, trying for brisk. "You think she'd like the coop better today? Or, I built an enclosure around it, you know, so she can be outside—too much, too early? What do you think?"

He gave her a somewhat-blank, somewhat-bemused stare. A feathered head with a particularly beady eye poked out of the basket to do the same.

"Let her loose outside and see what she does," he said, holding the basket out to her.

She made a few calculations. Saturday mornings were not the best time to push him; Friday nights were some of his worst, and the mood seemed to linger into the weekend. There was still the faint hint of beer lingering around him, and it was hard to tell if it was leftover from last night or if he'd started early this morning.

Well. What was life without a little risk? The things he'd said at the dock just a couple of weeks ago lingered in the back of her mind, and the last thing she wanted was to allow him to swiftly retreat back to the ranch and a six-pack.

Besides. She liked him, rude or not. She’d seen the suggestion of a dry humor during a couple of their previous conversations, and she wanted to see more of it.

"Let's head over to the coop, then," she suggested, pretending as if she hadn't noticed the attempt to offload the basket.

His eyes narrowed, just a little more, and as she brushed past him on the stairs she held her breath—bracing for a rude outburst, ready to take the basket he would undoubtedly thrust into her arms before storming off. But as she passed him, he let out an exasperated sigh, and his footsteps clunked on the stairs as he followed.

She was so smug in her victory that it came as a nasty shock when he commented, "Laundry day, huh?"

She glanced back in time to see him look away from the laundry lines—from the towels and the jeans and the t-shirts and, yes, the underwear. Had he seen the kangaroos? Could you make them out at this distance? She didn't dare look that way to be sure; her face was red enough as it was. She could pass that off as a sunburn, probably. She'd only learned the hard way, and recently, to be religious about sunscreen.

"Yeah," she said, making a stab at staying casual. "Best day of the week, right?"

"No dryer? Or are you just really trying to embrace the country lifestyle?"

There was a jab in there somewhere; she ignored it.

"No washer, no dryer," she said. "Guess Granddad did things the old-fashioned way."

They were on the path through a stand of pine trees, now, and the laundry was out of sight. She barely withheld a sigh of relief.

"Why?" she continued. "Is this how you're supposed to do things, out in the country? Am I doing it right?"

She smiled at him, so wide-eyed and guileless that he snorted in reaction. Maybe he was just laughing at her, the weird wannabe farm girl who wouldn't stop saying hello to him on the street no matter how many times he tried to put her off, but it was some version of a laugh.

"That why you're raising chickens now?" he said. "Trying to do things right?"

"I'm always trying to do things right," she said, knee-jerk, her mouth running ahead as fast as her brain could propel it. "Trying being the operative word."

He didn't laugh. Despite the lingering scent of beer, he gave her a considering, sidelong look. She pretended not to see it.

"Hey, Marnie’s decided to replace her old washer/dryer," Shane said, one night that first fall when he was fifteen days sober.

They were sitting by the big pond on her property, legs stretched out toward the campfire, backs braced against a sturdy log they'd hauled over just a week or so ago, and he looked both better and worse than she’d ever seen him look: better for the aggressive water-guzzling, worse for the hunted look in his eyes that said a beer would go down real nice right now. Better, but haggard for it, too.

He reached for another one of the lopsided pepper poppers. She had a ways to go for presentation, but clearly, they tasted good. She felt a swell of pride for that. That he liked anything she'd offered him—that was still new enough to delight her.

And that he broke a silence first, sometimes. That he sought her out instead of the other way around. That he'd spent today, a Saturday, his day off, helping her convince her new cow to follow her home from Marnie's ranch. That he'd laughed when they were both braced against the cow's backside, pushing, and she'd sworn reflexively like a violent sneeze when her feet slipped in the mud and he'd caught her by the elbow and hauled her back up and she'd felt a jolt in her chest like—

She stuck another marshmallow on her marshmallow-stick and held it out over the fire, firmly ignoring the dumb list-making that her brain did when it had a crush.

"That right?" she said, refocusing.

He kept a wary eye on her roasting marshmallow. "The dryer doesn’t dry so great." He pulled a face. "I mean, it’s slow as hell. Thirty years old and all. But it works. You want ‘em?"

She turned the marshmallow. It was really hard to ignore the crush when the crush remembered something that caused you an inconvenience and offered to fix it. She did her best, even though her heart beat a bit faster at the idea of a dryer. Even a thirty-year-old dryer.

"How much?" she asked. "I could really use them, but—"

"Lydia," he said, a stamp of exasperation—completely, totally familiar—imprinted on her name. It was how he usually said her name, but it had shifted over the last few months from aggravated exasperation to fond exasperation, and yes, there was totally a measurable difference. "They’re thirty fucking years old. They’re free."

Her eyes stung. She didn't dare blink; it would dislodge the completely excessive tears. She could pass off the glassiness in her eyes as the heat from the fire. Maybe. Hopefully.

She cleared her throat. "I’ll take them," she said. Her voice didn’t waver; that was something. "Thanks. I’ll rent a truck sometime this week—"

"You can just borrow ours," he interrupted again, and then, exasperation and fondness growing in equal measure, "You’re real bad at accepting help, huh?"

She managed a laugh. "It takes one to know one, right?"

He snorted—as good as agreement—and she started planning out how she’d get the machines hooked up, envisioning it, while Shane ate through another pepper popper and considered the pond.

"Thanks," she said again, because she thought it bore repeating.

He shrugged, shifted a little. "They're Marnie's machines."

"But you thought to offer them to me."

Was he blushing? No. Impossible. The firelight was just weird. He cleared his throat.

"Just seemed like you might want to keep your kangaroos out of the snow, with winter coming, and all," he said.

For an instant she was too apoplectic with embarrassment and anger and—yes, a little amusement—to react, and then she smacked him on the shoulder. "You looked?!"

He leaned slightly away from her, as if that put him out of range of future smacks. "You leave them hung up on lines in broad daylight!"

"That's not an invitation to—"

"I didn't go over and inspect them, or anything, just out of the corner of my eye while we were weeding—"

"Oh, I'm sure it was out of the corner of your eye—"

But it was impossible to keep up, this righteous indignation, when there was a hysterical laughter bubbling inside her that burst forth before she could keep talking, and he joined in, forehead thunking down on his knees, as she clutched her stomach and tears of mirth shook free from her eyes.

She dropped the marshmallow and the marshmallow stick, of course. The whole thing got subsumed into the fire. It only made them laugh harder.

And then, without thinking, as they started to get their breath back and the laughter wound down, she leaned sideways and dropped her head down to rest against his shoulder.

For a moment, he froze. She froze. Muscles tense, confused, reacting. She could still pull away, pass it off as a brief gesture of—of camaraderie, or something, instead of cuddling—

But then he relaxed, by increments; he didn't pull away. Though their arms were slightly squashed together, he shifted, just enough to take her hand in his.

This was still friendly, right? Just perfectly friendly. Nothing untoward, here. It would be a long time before he saw her kangaroos in any context besides on the laundry lines.

But. Maybe. Someday.

And then it was another fall—because time in the valley passed in a peculiar way, both too fast and too slow, and years seemed to go in great dollops sometimes—and the farm was doing good. Great, even. She had money left over, money used to make additions to the cottage and renovate the old cellar. And to move the washer/dryer inside, instead of huddling over it on the back porch.

This would all be wonderful, except that Lydia couldn’t actually find any of her laundry, and she knew she had plenty of it. Jeans splattered with mud. Flannels stiff with sweat. She'd looked forward to doing it inside, for the first time in literal years. Still in pajamas and with freezing toes, she made her way to the back of the house and poked her head through a door that still hadn’t quite been fixed with a handle. It was on the to-do list.

"Hey, Jas," she said. "You’re not playing some fun prank on me where you hide all my dirty laundry, right?"

Jas looked up from her book, quietly indignant in the way that only a nine-year-old could be. "Vincent hasn’t been over in a week," she said, trying a very dignified voice that really exercised Lydia’s poker face, "so unless it’s been missing that long—"

"No, no, I know. You wouldn’t. I can’t find anything, though."

"Maybe you already put it in the washer," Jas suggested, looking back down to her book, eyes already scanning. The first Harry Potter—she was halfway through, which was much further than she’d been a few hours ago.

"I’ll go check," Lydia agreed, though she was absolutely sure she would not have forgotten putting the first glorious load of laundry into a machine that was inside, "and then I’ll make some lunch, okay?"

"Can I eat in my room? I want to know what happens next."

Lydia grinned. "As long as you tell us all about what happened at dinner tonight."

Jas grinned back at her—not shy anymore. That, too, had been years ago. "Deal."

Lydia detoured back to her own bedroom for socks—the cellar got damn cold this time of year, and there was at least one fuzzy pair left in her dresser—and made the descent beneath the house. There was something a little creepy about it, always had been, but doubly so when she heard the sounds of movement below.

Halfway down the stairs, she froze. Shit, did they have rats, now? Just when things were going good—

But then there was a breath and a grunt, and she relaxed. There was something about knowing someone for three years that allowed you to recognize all their sounds and mannerisms and even their silhouette at a distance in dim light, in an instant, and she didn’t know why he was down in the cellar, but it was just Shane.

"Hey," she called, continuing on down the stairs, "have you seen my—"

She stopped dead at the bottom as he started and looked up at her. The whole western wall of the cellar had been cleared, the many racks of preserves jars and aging cheese shifted out of the way. Still organized, though. She could see even from here that her system had been preserved.

And in place of all of those rickety shelves were two gleaming machines that looked horrendously out of place in this early-twentieth-century-hole-underground, complete with some kind of built-in cabinets and tables in a nice honey-golden wood on which currently sat all of the clothes she was looking for, perfectly clean and nicely folded.

Shane shot her a glare over a pair of kangaroo-patterned underwear he was folding. What timing.

"If you’d given me maybe ten more minutes," he grouched, "I would’ve shouted surprise and everything." He sighed and ran a hand over his face, then gestured to the machines. "Tada?"

As if in slow motion, she realized: every time she’d been about to go down to the cellar these last few days, either Jas or Shane had distracted her and she’d forgotten her intentions entirely; there had been a few odd noises coming from the house when she’d been out in the field, but she’d discounted them as the wind, which was always sporadic and feisty in the valley this time of year; and her husband had done her laundry after assembling a new laundry station. That was what this was. A laundry station. A beautiful, wonderful laundry station.

Apparently she'd been quiet too long, because the exasperation on his face took on a bit of anxiety. "Don’t tell me you were attached to those old machines," he said. "The dryer took three hours to dry a couple of sweaters, Lyd."

She opened her mouth to say something, found her throat stuck fast, closed her mouth again, and shook her head. That much was safe.

"I read all the labels," he added, inspecting the folded clothes with a critical eye, "if that's what you're worried about. Everything washed per care instructions. No weird splotches or shrinkages."

He was going to keep running down the list if she didn't say something, but her heart was damn near bursting in her chest, which made speaking challenging. She'd felt about as overjoyed on their wedding day. She knew that this made her kind of weird.

"You built this?" she managed, though she sounded even to herself like she was getting over some kind of sinus infection. "It looks so nice."

The anxiety dropped away. He gave her an understanding, if exasperated, look. "If you cry over a washing machine again—"

"I’ve never cried over a washing machine before—"

"I was too polite to say anything at the pond that night," he said, now smiling in that way of his that had turned her heart for years, "but I saw—"

And then he didn’t get the chance to heckle her further, because she’d used her lightning speed and superior reflexes to dart across the cellar and kiss him thoroughly, which he reciprocated with enthusiasm, hoisting her up on top of the washer (a little clumsily) and knocking a stack of underwear to the floor. She burst out laughing but kept kissing him, and after a very halfhearted attempt to pull away, he allowed the underwear to languish on the floor.

"You're so fucking weird," he mumbled against her mouth. "You know that, right? You know that nobody else gets as excited as you do about laundry?"

She cupped his face in her hands, pressed her forehead against his. "I know how many books you have about chickens," she said. Threatened, really. "I'm in good company."

And it was a testament to the kind of day he was having—to the hard-fought ground he'd gained over the years—that he rolled his eyes and grinned at her and didn't argue.

#stardew valley #sdv shane #stardew valley shane #sdv farmer #shane/farmer #universe writes #fluff #developing relationship

109 notes · View notes