crystal-the-axolotl · 2 years ago
Text
Tumblr media
This has been sitting unfinished in my computer files for like a month now, but i finally finished it today, yay (it's not so bad, i'm actually liking how Canute's coat and eyes turned out)
10 notes · View notes
charleslee-valentine · 5 months ago
Text
Cats in The Cradle
Characters: Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair (no ships)
Word Count: ~6,000
Warnings: Abuse, cyclical abuse, toxic dynamics, Bo has complications from the surgery (missing cerebellum) and obsessive compulsive disorder, mental breakdowns, gun violence, delusions, religious trauma, implied sexual abuse, murder and the wax figures, Bo being mean to Vincent, blood and injury, vomiting, medical irresponsibility, paranoia, trauma bond.
~~~~~~~
Every day in Ambrose is the same. It’s when there’s change the trouble comes along.
Makes Lester world-weary. Got to run off on his little rot-filled road trips for some air. Though he stays tethered to the house, even if only at the end of the night, when he’s got to wander home for normalcy. It ain’t about the protection, he’s got a slugger under the seat for that, and it ain’t the occasional cooking his brothers get up to and burn each time either. He’s grown enough get shit done, even if it’s the ass crack of dawn outside and he ain’t eaten in a whole day, he’ll whip somethin’ up.
That’s the argument anyhow. That he can take well enough good care of himself to be allowed to roam some. Don’t make sense that he’d be the first, bein’ the youngest and all, but the antsier he got, the messier he got with the huntin’, and suddenly his big brothers had to leave Ambrose to track some fella that got out through the trees Lester was s’posed to be watchin’.
Thought that would get him strung up himself. A perfect wax Lester placed inside Trudy’s pride and joy tendin’ to little, pure wax, babies. Maybe down the pet store with Jonsey’s pups that never come to be, or shovelin’ shit out in the cemetery. That’d be like them, to leave him outside to melt and wither away.
Never come though. Got him a reprimandin’ sure, but he left it with a smile anyhow knowin’ big brother wasn’t gonna use his own bowie to slit his throat. And then again when Vinny told him he could leave on the condition he started tendin’ to himself and his chores without help from either brother, and come home every night.
Really if it were up to Vincent, they’d all get the same freedoms, but it weren’t. Never was going to be, when Mama kept him firm in her shadow. Bo’d kill ‘em all if he caught wind of Lester’s thinkin’ it, but fact is he figures Bo just replaced Mama when she keeled over.
Trudy was out her mind the last few years of it. Never went to no homes, despite what Bo likes to tell folks. They stayed and fixed Mama up. Ambrose got empty and miss Trudy got needy. It was every day pickin’ up shifts the tradesmen was droppin’, leavin’ the schoolhouse forever. Old fashioned as it was, s’not like they was learnin’ anything in a one-room, all-grades schoolhouse anyhow.
Still woulda been nice to have a shot at normal. Coulda left with the rush and forgot about highchairs and smelly wax. Nope.
Now Bo’s jus’ as mean as Trudy, enforcin’ his rule with the same flat palm. ‘Cept’n the part where his is rung around with scars.
Different, ‘cause Trudy’s off burnin’ in hell, not missed by a soul, but they stick close with Bo. Know it ain’t really his fault.
The Doc called it compulsions. Some kinda disorder come from havin’ to lose a piece or two of the lowest part of his brain in the surgery. Lester never gonna forget bein’ tiny as can be, sat on the table cause Trudy put him down and forgot him there, while Bo, who seemed so much older back then when the six years made a difference, was strapped down. They’d use the highchair still if they could, but he was too big and awful by then.
Shove him in a standard dining chair and tape his arms underneath. Let him cry and try to kick and pull and bare his teeth. Lester was just learnin’ to speak, and he’d asked what was happening’, curious about all the shouting and pain.
Bo told a little lie turns out. Same thing with the surgery, his mind would wander back then, forgetting what made reality real and made the stuff in his head not. He carved up some critter and left it in the art studio. Said Trudy gave him permission. Well she didn’t. Little Vinny was her artist, and notably, nowhere to be seen in this memory, autonomous enough to stay away, but never going far.
Must’ve hurt him too, listenin’ to Bo losin’ his mind now and again. Knowin’ it was him that leeched off the back of his head and absorbed that one important little piece out his skull. Payback for the whole, not having a tongue, thing.
Nowadays Bo’s a little better, but Ambrose still got to be pretty particular to not send him right back to the pale, polished arms of the hallucinations. Those belong in the casket down the road.
Lester blames Trudy. Even when he goes with to honor her when Bo needs to do it. Every Sunday is when he’s down there, so ‘less he’s got a job Lester’ll come down to see. Vincent’s usually there too, if nobody been through in a while.
They take off their hats and masks, bow their heads, and pray. They pretend they don’t notice Bo’s hips and knees splayed wide in an arc and struggling to walk straight when that metaphorical mask of the Doc’s training wares off. His hands shake. His words don’t come out right. Sometime’s Lester’s the only one in the house usin’ words, while the twins do their motioning about.
Really should’ve gotten more interested in those sign language books he’d been given way back when. It was funny, a lady on the TV could use sign ‘cause she couldn’t hear words and that meant she couldn’t make ‘em. Trudy saw it and was livid. Banned them all from 123 Sesame Street and whooped Bo for even turning it on. Like it was bad to communicate.
If Vincent knew how to make his signs back then, maybe he’d have told the papers the truth. After all it was Mama that did the talking. Givin’ him words gave him the chance to say no. To bein’ her little protege and heir. Like hell she’d ever let that happen. Had to teach it to himself in secret. Bo picked it up from watchin’ and snatchin’ up Vinny’s books and papers to tease.
Lester wishes he were that smart. Hell, Doc even said it himself, sometimes seemed like he was born with even less brain than Beauregard. ‘Cept he had a different name for Bo all the boys promised never to repeat. They’d get nasty, but none of that usin’ Mama and Papa against each other.
Prolly why they’s too scared to tell Bo he’s becomin’ like Trudy. Stumblin’, shakin’, pissed at everything.
Ambrose falls well into his liking. Bo got it all down to memory.
Bodies he don’t like don’t even go on display. Vincent could work his big ass off on a statue for weeks, but if Bo couldn’t squeeze it into however he’d categorized the town in imaginary gridlines, they’d be put on reserve. The wax house held the rejects, mostly. Once upon a time Vincent left Lester a note tellin’ him he sometimes dressed the statues up funny and messed up their makeup if they were his favorites, so Bo would reject them, and he’d get to keep ‘em. Worked every time too.
Be nice if they could laugh about things like that anymore. ‘Specially with Bo.
A new batch come through back in the early spring, just a couple months shy of a year or so ago then, and filled up lots of the empty space. Mostly went to the theater. Baby Jane and sister Blanche didn’t used to be lightin’ the place up with their sad story, they just tossed an old closed sign up ‘til the bodies rolled in.
It pissed Bo off when Lester was helpin’ him and wanted to put his statues in a line. Made sense, like they was all friends together! But Bo had it all mapped in his head, talkin’ who’s clothes matched who, color in their hair matchin’ with the number on their seats. That was more confusin’ than his fits.
Most of the time in Ambrose his workday was tidying, checkin’ on rat traps and the like. But sometimes when Lester could slip in a lunch break or two off patrol he’d see Bo pacin’. Drawin’ lines in the sky with his hands, mutterin’, kickin’ things. Like inside the theater but on the whole town.
Funny thing is they do gotta crown a new Miss Ambrose once in a while.
The silky bright colors of a beauty queen dress stand out far too much against the pale, sunfaded town they live in. Her smile too white, the makeup too sparkly. Bo tears the bodies to bits and takes them back to Vinny, like a child with his broken toy.
There’s nothin’ he can do, and they both know it, but Bo is different from Trudy in that he will admit regret. Not directly, he’d sooner swallow a gator in one bite, but showin’ the broken pieces is still better than tyin’ ‘em down to hide.
At least most of the time it ain’t like that. One thing he’s always picky about is the lights. Town gotta come to life some time, but Bo’s got a tradition. Generators don’t kick on ‘til he flips the switch manually, else he’ll block the sky with the burning neons of mom’s and pop’s updating with the times, and firey orange street lights. Bo insists they don’t got color. Just a disgusting haze that makes it hard to see. Lester takes the accusation of him being wrong, even though he knows it’s Bo’s head.
And he’s gotta see the sky. Star light, star bright, first star and all that- it’s his one shot at a wish. Not even his brother’s knows what he wishes for each night, peekin’ his head out the window ‘fore callin’ down to Vincent to flip the switch.
Maybe to make Ambrose perfect the way he sees it in his head, so he can stop runnin’ around town tryin’ to adjust it all. Finding those little pockets of feelings and digging in until anythin’ that stands out has to go.
Way back when, Lester kinda hoped Bo would set him free by thinkin’ he didn’t match. Not like he was part of the squirming mass his brother’s was born as. Nobody remembered Lester. Not for bein’ quiet and shy or for bein’ devilish.
Longer he stays though, he knows it’s not really Bo takin’ real care of Ambrose. His head needs it perfect, destroyin’ progress for somethin’ only he can reach and grasp and toss about like it means anything as a scolding hot weapon. Perfection burns hotter, stings worse than wax, and Trudy Sinclair wanted both from her boys.
Trudy might’ve been sick physically, but it come along long before that. Only a matter of time before Bo’s head gets angry ‘bout the dank environment up there and tries to plug it’s missing bits with the same cancer that took Mama the rest of the way to hell.
She had to’ve been there before she died. Else she wouldn’t have done what she did on her way out. Her last words. “Beauregard. Bo.. Promise me you’ll keep Ambrose tidy. You were Mama’s boy. Kept things in line. Don’t let it got to chaos, to hell.”
It was bullshit. If she weren’t already gasping for life Lester might’ve grabbed her throat then and there. Vince knew it too, cause he stepped in front of Les and went to Bo. Chest to back, the way they was conjoined, he’d tried to force his whispers with his half of a tongue, getting at least his twin’s attention to start gesturing.
“Don’t listen.”
“Mama is a liar.”
“You know how you are. You know how she is. Don’t.”
It was hopeless.
That word again. The Doc said compulsions, well sometimes he also said obsessions. Same disorder, different symptom. Neither one Bo could escape. Even if he’d been listenin’ to his brother, which he wasn’t.
All he heard was Hell and that was enough. Bo was terrified of the spiritual. They all oughta remember the way he’d been in church, even when it was full, bawlin’ his head off, havin’ those fits ‘cause he thought he was goin’ to face demons and hellfire for breakin’ rules. The panic meant he kept breakin’ rules, and he kept gettin’ scared, and so on.
It was a trap to scare kids into bein’ good, nothin’ worth anythin’ in adult life, but those Sunday mornin’s Bo kneels at Trudy’s coffin and prays for real, not just at her but at any God that will listen and spare him and his brothers. If Ambrose can be a haven, when it reaches that state of perfection, they’ll be guaranteed eternal life away from screamin’ babies and burning wrists and “please Mama I was doin’ my best-“
The script Bo operates on never ceases. Pretty girls get their mouths glued shut so they have to follow it. Lester drives the same route to catch the same folks and scrape the same families of deer off the roads. Hell it ain’t official, if it were he couldn’t keep the little trinkets and bones he does. Or the meat. But it covers well and no government gonna complain about free labor from a guy like him.
With the girls, they’re just like the deer. Bo takes their pictures and calls them sweet things, but he’s on repeat. Same task, get the restraints, tune out the noise or find a way to stop it, stay sickly sweet with ‘em all the while. Throw in some affection so they don’t fight so much.
Just. Like. Mama.
Lester don’t much like toyin’ with the art. Feels like goin’ in a museum and draggin’ your fingers all over the paint. Which actually is somethin’ Bo would probably do, if it wasn’t up to his standard, takin’ the whole frame and just tossin’ it right out. But they stay neat and displayed on his cellar walls, in scattered checkerboard rows that Bo thinks are straight across.
Thing that always stumps Lester, and Vincent actually, is when he catches Bo slicing little knicks under his fingertips. His palms. Adding newer scars to the thick band around each of his wrists. Always says the girls died too soon. Broke the script, the rules. Now he’s gotta make up for the pain that would be cast into the realm of Ambrose if it weren’t for the failure of another little miss coulda been the one. As if.
They ain’t for keeps. Nothin’ is. Ambrose changes, and changes, and changes. Still every day is the same.
Wake up at a certain time, make the rounds, play pretend, sit itchin’ by the one landline behind a locked door that works, waitin’ for Lester’s call home. If it don’t come in a few minutes, it’s down to make his rounds countin’ heads. Move a few things this way and that on the store shelves. Hang up a picture or two cut out meticulously (as shaky hands can be) from books and magazines, a mimic of the ranging advertisements on display in the bigger cities.
Not a mimic. A replication. Nothin’ bad, nothin’ wrong- that thing is not my baby!
Bo spirals a lot. When he’s on his own. Part of why he’s got to dig his hands so deep into Ambrose. There’s shame in it he tries to squash down with mixtures of somethin’ too strong for a normal day. Mixin’ rum and brandy in a big bottle of orange juice. Vodka in his morning coffee.
Drunk Bo is more coordinated than sober. That little cocktail comes to work with him, and he makes do. Let it be known he isn’t the twin to come away with an issue. Can’t be. He’s mama’s boy, remember?
Lester is sickened by it. Watchin’ his trances like that, knowin’ it’s all ‘cause of Trudy in her final moments.
Shit they didn’t even need to do the killin’, ‘f Bo coulda got his head screwed on a right way. Too late now ‘course. They’re hundreds of innocent lives deep in this thing. Got themselves a dog outta killin’ her owner. Another responsibility, a life to keep up.
Jonsey herself stresses Bo out to no end. Her wagging tail, her happy jumpin’ when she recognizes her dearest friends. When she barks at creaky staircases settlin’ at night, his jaw sets so tight his teeth creak audibly. If he got a cut, he won’t touch the dog. Says it’ll kill him to get any of her in with his blood. Seems silly to Lester, by Bo’s designation the one that plays in guts and bone splinters all day, gettin’ plenty of that himself.
Sometimes a storm’ll roll through in rain season and bring some nasty wind with it, scarin’ the life outta the poor puppy dog. She starts to shake and drool all over. It makes Bo so nauseous to watch he has to leave the room or hack up that nasty concoction he drinks that shouldn’t be stayin’ down anyhow.
Vince stays, always stays, ‘cause someone’s got to. Bo’s a flight risk and Lester just don’t much like bein’ the trapped one. So it’s a system set in stone, or carved in blood and bone more like. Breathed in like the ashes of Bo’s more or less wasted cigarettes.
Way Lester sees it, just like the papery stubs, the routine gotta but extinguished ‘fore they all choke to death on it.
But he hadn’t meant for things to get so different.
Like even thinkin’ it cursed the place, he sends one scrawny group their way and suddenly Bo’s bleedin’ all over the kitchen tiles. Wouldn’t even know it if Vincent hadn’t dialed his bother’s number and left the phone in Bo’s pocket. Keepin’ tabs on his pain so Lester can hear it all and know somethin’s up.
The arrow in his chest stays right there, until Lester pulls up. Somethin’ about knowing Vince called in backup is sign enough to take it serious. Insists on doing it himself though.
Lester says they oughta snip the arrow where it lies and take him to emergency later on. Bo says he’d rather die now than leave a vulnerable spot stickin’ six inches out his chest. Yanks it ‘til his knees buckle and he damn near smacks his teeth off the linoleum. Then vomits stinking alcohol everywhere.
Vincent can see it ain’t gonna happen that way, and locks eyes with Lester. Tells him mentally to pass on an apology for what he’s about to do. Which is, he grabs the arrow by just under the fletchings and yanks the damn thing out before Bo can lose his shit over splinters and weakness and all that.
Well, he loses his shit anyhow, screamin’ bloody murder that he’s gonna kill Vincent for that. Only for a moment before he blacks the hell out from the pain. Prob’ly won’t even remember callin’ Vince a freak.
The hunt goes on without ‘im, without what would’ve been -though Lester never likes admitting when his big brother is right- a weak point for the shifty ass kids to stick their fingers into. End up gettin’ a pretty good knock on ‘em too.
Just like before the girly made it out almost to the roads, but Lester’s a better shot than Bo. Don’t got those phantom shakes and all. Though Vinny would hafta to pick all that bullet scrap out if they was to use her as a figure.
The next time Bo’s conscious, he’s demanding to see what Vincent gonna do with the statues. And it’s a damn good thing they didn’t set out on digging up the shrapnel, ‘cause Bo’s pissed about the arrows, and the shop windows, and the church goers, and the house. It’s all messed up, that safety cushion gone and deflated in one night.
Can’t make art outta enemies. This particukar chase weren’t fun or even close to it. No bright side to it.
Bo wants them destroyed. All of ‘em at first, but Vincent won’t ‘llow that. Threatens to hop in the yellow truck again and take off just like last time knowing damn well it pissed Bo off and was the reason he took two still bleeding blows.
They gets rid of the twins, the girl and the boy ‘ gave ‘em the most trouble. Let Bo decide what he wants done with ‘em.
Could shred ‘em up, sink ‘em to the bottom of the road kill pit, though Lester’s hesitant to do so knowin’ the same group was already thinkin’ he hid bodies in it ‘stead of jus’ Trudy’s old model mannequins. There’s always the marshland they’d rot away in nicely, unnoticed.
He wants ‘em gone though. Not buried and rotting, not waxed over into someone new, gone.
Burn the bodies. Peel the flesh. Boil the bones. Smash ‘em into dust. Mix it in with Vincent’s pigments. Their crystallized, powdered remains make for some perfect shiny makeup on the blonde’s eyelids, and extra sparkle in her wax-cast jewelry.
Felt fitting, to adorn another member of the group in those two’s particular sins. It was them two that got the rest killed so brutally after all.
Speaking of sin.
Bo slept in the church for a few nights, sprawled painfully over a dusty pew, nothing but a jacket as cushion against the solid wood. Ambrose was different now. The order had been broken and he needed to hide from the wrath that would bring.
Mama’s empty husk of a corpse wouldn’t help him. He just hoped the proximity to the altar would get some divine figure’s eyes on him, even if not her. At least send down a quick recovery so he can fucking fix the mess those kids left behind.
The pain, he can swallow, but some part of his system got fucked over right into overdrive and now he’s got no control of his shakes. His legs are as bowed as they’ve ever been, limpin’ and draggin’ himself all this way to the church was humiliating enough. No way he’s installing fresh window panes and rearranging statues to his heart’s content like this.
The dog comes and gets Bo first in the morning. Sunlight pourin’ in through the stained windows, Bo feels like he’s burnin’ up in hellfire instead of kissed by heavenly rays. Or the sticky tongue of a staffordshire terrier. Pitbull mix. Whatever the fuck the mutt is.
Jonesy is always a sign Vincent is close, ‘nd Bo cannot, will not let either of his brotherd see he’s all but given up. Their ignorant little asses are s’pose to be none the wiser he even left the house last night.
The ramblings of a man happens to be clueless that they both watched his sorry ass limp on down there, fallin’ to his knees once and skid down the hill. Anyone alive in Ambrose could’ve heard him cry out when he jammed his busted up shoulder tryin’ to catch himself and struggled for a few minutes to throw weight into his legs and stand. His gait was fucked but so were his patterns, zig-zagging from one side of the road to the next and never knowin’ it.
Really he’d blacked out in the first empty pew, taking no time to get comfortable. It wasn’t about comfort, it was necessity. A shield around his already wounded heart. His brother’s checked on him every few hours.
Bo’s blood stains the church now, far beyond a dried raisin of a corpse in the center of the holy building. Trudy’s eternal wake seems more and more pointless. Her soul can’t be saved for the life she inflicted on her trio of tragic babes. But her son can. Even the devil on earth can be shown God’s graces if he could just fucking stand up and-
He’s humbled by Jonesy. She was his chance to get his ass up and find whichever one of his asshole brothers sicked the bitch on him. The way she curls up next to his boot, singular, that he managed to get off but not back on is her final brag. ‘You lost. Now my caretakers ‘re yours too.’
As expected, right on cue, Vincent creeps in the church then, forever stomping in too heavy boots, settling into the pew in front of Bo. Silent. Back turn so signs won’t work.
“Fuck you.” Is the first thing out of his mouth. Bo repeats it ‘til he vomits a pathetic tiny cough of spit and stomach acid onto the ruined floors.
Vincent doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react to being screamed at. He’s not the one with open wounds. Never fucking has been.
“I’m talking to you, freak!”
That word again. Bo doesn’t know why he keeps saying it. Got him choked up last night, rambling about his promises. Because that should be more important. Vincent’s face don’t mean shit when it comes to Ambrose. Hell, he’d probably be capable if the surgery took his arms too. That talent is unstoppable.
Like the silence.
“Don’t make me say it, Vincent. Fucking.. I ain’t here for your damn power trip, alright? You ain’t savin’ shit.”
Nary a fuckin’ glance. From behind, all inky hair and broad shoulders, it’s hard to pick out Vincent’s feelings. That frustrates Bo. Just like with victims, his brothers got a script too. He’s supposed to be in the know, in charge. Vincent can’t keep secrets from him. Secrets get brothers shot inches away from vital organs and arteries.
“Vincent. Vinny. Help your brother out..”
It reminds him of being younger. The highchair. Pleading with Vincent to cut the tape and let him go because Mama and the Doc never listened. His one little eye would shed enough tears Bo could see ‘em across the room. Stuck in place, while Vincent could come and go as he pleased, but still chose distance. And he never did free Bo from the restraints.
“C’mon, now. Gotta get this fuckin’ shit show on the road. Need a hand, Vinny..”
Begging for help out of the pew, it takes ‘em both back there. Bo hopes Trudy is the one stuck now, held down by ugly demons in that coffin of hers, watching her boys get along enough.
Well, Vincent listens anyhow when he’s talked to softly like that. Gets right up and takes Bo by his palms, never his wrists, and heaves him up. Even doesn’t make a comment when Bo’s ankle twists under itself for some godforsaken cranial reason and he stumbles straight into his brother’s shoulder.
Face first in a grimy sweater, he sort of understands what it’s like to be in Vinny’s place. At least in the conjoinment. Bo hates the pictures, of their little bodies all twisted up and stuck. The weight of Vincent is suffocating like that, not comforting like the feeling of warm cashmere. Makes him want to crawl right out of his skin.
Bo scratches at the bands of scar tissue on his arms, never a day in his life since they formed without drawing blood from a raised line of the itchiest goddamn feeling. Only way to describe it is like mosquitos stakin’ their claim on every last blood cell in the area. Poison in his blood, from his highchair days on.
Gotta push away from bein’ stuck in Vincent’s careful proximity. Can’t get comfortable, vulnerable, like a silent, squirming little bastard child.
Bo can’t do this. This switching places thing. If he’s gonna be the weaker twin, Vincent better fuckin’ do his part. One way or another. Provoking him is the easy part.
“Heard you kept the pretty blonde. Took some video to remember her, huh. You got the hots for some wax bitch, Vin?”
Nothing. He physically pushes Vincent, uncoordinated enough to miss his chest and thump into his shoulder instead.
“Look I don’t got much interest in your creepy fuckin’ Quasimodo dungeon, but I gotta know. D’you fuck her? Get up reeeeal close in that wax pussy?”
Bo swallows down more acrid bile. Forces a tight, painful laugh.
“Of course she’s special. Tiny. Blonde. Just your type yeah? Just like your whore mommy-“
There we go. Vincent shoves him back, both of them knowing damn well that’s enough to take Bo down right now. And it does alright. Knocks some ribs pretty good against the back of the pew on his way down, forcing out a painful puff of air.
While he’s down, Vincent takes a second swing with his boot this time, pinning Bo on down to the floor. Pretty sure he cracked his head when he got forced down. Or maybe just put too much strain on the arrow wounds, ‘cause damn is he seein’ little stars and Angels dancin’ in his narrow vision.
If he wanted to win, Vince would press down with that boot and put his twin out of both of their misery, crackin’ ribs into bits and stabbin’ his heart. That’s not his goal though, never had been. It’s to knock some damn sense into Bo that he’s injured and needs to forget about his spastic bullshit.
Pisses him off. Bo fights back by jabbing his fingers in the back of Vincent’s knee, bringing him down to kneeling on pure instinct. Now Bo can reach the straps of his apron, pull himself back up to Vincent’s level in this fight for his spot.
“You think you get to boss me ‘round jus’ ‘cause I’m fucked up.. Well you’re fuckin’ mistaken, boy! I am in charge ‘round here. Not you. Not Lester.”
Vincent just stares. Tears apart Bo’s attitude with just that familiar glare. Fuck him.
“Look at you, fightin’ your sick brother. Think ‘at makes you better’n me?” Bo feels like he’s suffocating, even without the pressure holding him down. He licks across his lips and ignores the taste, “Guess you oughta put a fuckin’ cap in me. ‘Member? I killed the bitch when she got too fucked up. Two for her and one for the Doc.”
Vincent’s eye contact wavers, drifting over towards the plush coffin, like he’s considering it. So Bo doesn’t shut up, doesn’t even know if he can, “Leaves three more in the chamber. Could take us all out. One for baby Les. One for you. One for me. I’d do it if you left me for last. Don’t got nothin’ without-“
His intense staring finally processes in his brain, noticing the off details about Vincent’s face. The mask, the good one, was ruined in the hunt. There was a smaller one that would make do but wasn’t comfortable. Bo examines it, eyes flitting around, confusion in his bunched brows.
“The fuck happened to your face?”
‘You did.’ Vincent thinks, but he doesn’t tell him that. Instead he shrugs, hopes he won’t press the issue. Redirecting ain’t as easy when Bo’s still askin’ more questions.
And Bo is furious now, “We could fuckin’ quit it, you know. Got no right touchin’ your fuckin’ face. Fuck ‘em, Vinny. Can’t believe they’d fuckin’ lay a hand on you, I’ll kill them all!”
He must know they’re already dead in truth, because he goes silent for a while. When he comes back, he’s talking about their other conversation. The one with the pistol that killed Mama and the Doc in their beds, years and years apart.
Dangerously close to being honest, Bo hisses and acts like he’s adjusting his aching shoulder, but really, the pain is nothing compared to what’s going on in his head.
“Can’t do it on my own. One of us dies, we all die. You fuckin’ promise me that?”
Bo seems to think he’s ill. His eyes blur over and it’s not tears, just a pounding in his head. He’s dehydrated from vomiting so much, delirious from the blood loss, but he thinks he knows better. The tumor. Come for him this time. That’s what he convinces himself.
“You’d do it, Vinny, wouldn’t ya, if I couldn’t?” His nose is running from the humidity, the pain, his body forcing a fever to fight for himself. In his mind’s eye, it’s blood pouring from his nose. Just like Daddy after his skull popped.
Fuck. He’s already dead.
“Vincent. Vincent you can’t let go of me!” He clutches that sweater like his life fucking depends on it, glancing at the ground and back up at his brother, over and over, like it might fall away any second.
His brother tilts his head in confusion, but Vincent obliges his ramblings, holding onto Bo around one arm, the other hand balled in his trashed uniform shirt.
“You let go of me ‘n I’m a goner, y’hear? Don’t you fuckin’ let me go. Hell ain’t ready for me. I’m not- My soul got business here and you ain’t fucking gonna turn me into wax, goddamn it. I ain’t the monstrosity here. Fuckin’.. You aren’t either Vincent. That bitch- That fuckin’ demon in Mama’s coffin, don’t let it take me-“
His rambling goes on like that ‘til he passes out again. Under Vincent’s ill-fitting mask, his best one ruined in the hunt, tears are running down the left side of his face. Finding meaning in this fit, knowing full well Bo won’t remember it tomorrow, is idiotic. But he does it anyhow. Lets himself take it to heart that he’s necessary, and loved, and nothing at all like Miss mama Trudy.
He’s right though, Bo doesn’t remember a thing. Vincent carried him home and Bo woke up on the couch, had a plate of eggs like nothin’ happened. Across from him, he nodded to Lester, “You spot a single soul out there, you let us know ‘n we’ll be by. Not too much work today.”
Lester scowls and nods his head, dumbstruck by how much he forgot this time, “Yeh, alright. Got nothin’ better t’ do myself.”
There ain’t gonna be a hunt for a long while, and just as likely he ain’t gonna leave Ambrose. Too many repairs to leave to Bo in this state, all fucked in the head by his disorder. It’s like that sometimes in cycles, but they ain’t seen it get this bad before.
Routine is routine. Bo’s disorder robs him of his sense, his brain defects makin’ him weak. His brother’s fix everythin’ up ‘til his brain gets all better, and he gets bored of doin’ the small stuff. Thinks Ambrose is always the same, nothin’ ever happenin’ to disrupt his perfect plan.
Make Mama proud. Make Bo calm. Same goddamn difference.
Lester looks at Vincent across the table, and he nods, the signal to keep lying to Bo. “Saw a group campin’ in the woods. Two girls, ‘bout four boys. Teenagers, I could get ‘em back and Vinny can take ‘em.”
They’re already dead. The keepers of the group already a part of Ambrose. Dead men walking.
“You sit tight, rest that arm up. Show you the new figures in the mornin’.”
It’s gettin’ too easy to lie through his teeth, but harder to keep Bo inside.
Neither knows what the stiff nod from Bo means, ‘til he says, “Have your fun. Jus’ be fuckin’ careful. You fuck up my town, I’ll fuck up somethin’ of yours.”
‘Uh-huh, we know, asshole.’ Lester thinks, tension in his jaw pushing it forward. There’s all kinds of words just dancin’ on his tongue, but he swallows them back, if only ‘cause Vince puts his hand on his shoulder.
Instead, he manages to choke out a simple, “Yessir.”
7 notes · View notes
unculturedmamoswine · 2 years ago
Text
Gravity Falls Fic: Sweet Dreams
My fic for day 3 of @polyshipweek! I chose the prompt bed sharing, and the ship Ford/Fiddleford/Emma-May. This extremely self-indulgent fic is Fiddleford’s college life told through beds and how many people can fit in them. (Also it’s a happy-ending au, spoilers lol) You can read it under the cut or on AO3 here.
For one person, Fiddleford’s bed at Backupsmore is just fine. Creaky and squeaky and don’t smell too good, but it’s a perfectly tolerable size. His roommate’s a heavy sleeper and so any tossing and turning Fiddleford might do won’t wake him up. Once he's used to sleeping in a new place, he's pretty happy with it.
A little over a year in, Fiddleford finds his bed just ain’t remotely workable for two people. Emma-May isn’t staying over much early on, of course, but when they might want a bed, they don’t have one that’s guaranteed private. Ford’s not home a lot of the time, though. He’s out late studying and working on his theories and doing other odd things that Fiddleford doesn’t want to call ‘magic’ or ‘witchcraft’ but... Well, anyhow, even though Ford isn't always around, Fiddleford doesn't want to risk being walked in on, so he and Emmy keep it clean in his room.
It would be nice if they could stay over at Emma-May’s place every now and then, but Emmy lives with her mama. And she’s a lovely woman, seems quite nice, but she’s always home at night. She never spends the night anywhere else, which means there’s not a snowball’s chance in heck that Fiddleford and Emma-May could possibly get away with a little time spent alone together except when Emma-May drags Fiddleford home the odd afternoon that Ms. Dixon ain’t there.
One Thursday night when Fiddleford’s twenty, he and Emma-May get a touch carried away in his dorm room for the first time. (Not the first ever time– see above. Just the first time in the dorm room.) After, Emma-May pulls on a shirt from the dresser (one of Ford’s, as it happens) and they cuddle themselves to sleep like young fools who’re falling quick into love.
In the morning, it’s clear that Ford’s been and gone: books on his bedside table switched out, new dirty laundry in the form of yesterday’s shirt shoved under his bed, the smell of his cheap shampoo hovering in the room, and his bed now made when it had been a mess before. Fiddleford blushes at the thought of Stanford seeing him and Emma asleep together; embarrassed, guilty maybe, and even a little annoyed, though he doesn’t have any right to be. If anything, Ford is probably the one frustrated at his roommate having his girlfriend over without so much as a sock on the doorknob.
Ford, though, who whines about Fiddleford’s banjo playing til he’s blue in the face, doesn’t bring Emma-May up to him once. He doesn’t tease or joke or open his mouth to ask a single thing about her staying over.
Thursdays become days when Ford’s regularly out late and comes back to their room real sneakily, leaving before Emma-May or Fiddleford are up. And every other Monday, too. Fiddleford figures it’s coincidence or that Ford is being remarkably considerate of Fiddleford’s need for sex. He hopes Ford is getting what he needs too, and wonders if Ford’s seeing anyone, and why he hasn’t told Fiddleford anything about it if he is. And if he thinks about it a bit more than most men might think of their pals’ sex lives, so what? Fiddleford’s got a girlfriend, so anything any inner voices of his might say about his interest any handsome fellas who know their way around a polydimensional model of theoretical hyper-magnetic waves can go take a hike.
But back to his actual bed– it’s alright for sex, even if it is too loud. And at least during sex folks are pressed pretty close together most of the time so the lack of space ain’t the worst thing. But Emma-May’s a big gal, and Fiddleford might be wiry but he’s tall, and he likes to have a little elbow room when he’s sleeping. When Emma-May stays over, they both have to lie on their sides, usually with Fiddleford’s arm jammed under Emmy’s ribs. More than once he’s awoken to find he can’t feel his hand, and she complains of bruises. It’s overall sweaty and unpleasant, particularly since Fiddleford is often too hot at night even when he’s alone.
He doesn't want to seem ungrateful, but sometimes he doesn’t get a wink of sleep when Emmy stays over.
It’s absolutely not possible, Fiddleford eventually learns, for three people to sleep in one of his dorm’s tiny little beds. When he’s presented with the really dang nice, even downright enviable problem of what to do with the tall, muscly bodies of the two smart, sweet, funny, goofy, good-lookin’ honeys he now has all to himself, he wants to laugh and maybe just tear out his hair. Only a little, just a touch.
(This is, he knows, looking at things through rose-colored glasses. In the fraught time between being ‘a guy with a girlfriend and a best friend’ and ‘a guy with a girlfriend and a boyfriend’, he has his room all to himself more times than he would like. He’s so wracked with guilt and shame that he can’t hardly sleep sometimes, even with all the space his empty bed affords him. He and Ford and Emma-May are all different combinations of embarrassed and hurt and angry, and it’s hard, it’s dang hard to get it all to work. Once it does start to work, the bed problem is a nice problem to have.)
There isn’t room for all of them on one bed, and the way the room’s laid out, there’s no way to push the beds together without blocking the door, so that’s out. The floor’s filthy, and the biggest patch of open space down there is even smaller than one of the mattresses anyway, so they can’t sleep on the floor, either.
One saving grace is that Ford turns out to be a tenacious cuddler. Awake, he can listen to a request for some space. Asleep, he won’t leave a body alone, which Emmy, seemingly, doesn’t mind too much. So when she stays over, which happens more and more as the months go on, she sleeps with Ford a good bit of the time. It’s a boon for Fiddleford, who gets his bed to himself but can still hear the soft noises of Ford and Emma-May shifting and breathing and snoring all over each other across the small room.
Awake, Fiddleford, Emma-May, and Stanford can fit on one bed only if they all sit up and squish themselves together, which they do sometimes, just to spend time all together as a three-man couple, as Emmy calls it. Ford says he doesn’t mind Fiddleford and Emma-May being the public face of whatever it is they are (as Ford calls it) and to his credit, it seems genuine. It is nice, though, to have one room in one building where the truth can be told. Fiddleford likes being able to kick his legs across Ford’s lap in their room as easily as he takes Emma-May’s hand in public.
When it comes to sex with three people, the logistics alone would be difficult enough without the bed problem. (Worth it, though. Phew.) As it is, there’s an awful lot of kicking, elbowing, bruising, and cursing that goes on when they try to all get frisky together.
That’s a problem that eventually sorts itself out, because while Em has graduated by the time Fiddleford and Ford near the end of their time at BMU, she’s working lots to try to save up (for their future lives together, none of them admit.) Stanford is so mired in his own studies that he quits his part-time job in order to keep his nose to the grindstone and get that PhD he’s after. Fiddleford ain’t much better off, spending every free moment in the library or the manufacturing technology building.
The upshot of all this is that, during the ‘74-’75 school year, it’d be easier to find hen’s teeth than a free couple of hours they all three share. They become something closer to three two-person couples than one three-person one. Fiddleford will snatch a night of sleep in Ford’s bed here, a quick lunch with Em there, and he thinks maybe Emmy and Ford have taken to using her bed at her mom’s place for the purpose she and Fiddleford used to, a little afternoon delight when they can manage it.
Ford tells them he’s found a place he wants to go after college when they’re all on their beds, one exceedingly rare Sunday afternoon together. Ford’s seated on his own mattress, looking across at Fiddleford and Emma-May on Fiddleford’s bed, an odd mix of solemnity and anticipation on his face. It’s an occasion that Ford clearly goes into planning for a breakup. If it were just Fiddleford alone with him, it might have ended up that way, but the three of them all together have something different going on, some kind of strange chemical makeup bonding them together, maybe.
Sure, they do a fair bit of yelling. Emmy cries, Ford looks darn close, and they all end up moving from bed to bed as they alternately argue and make up in odd little bursts of frustrated affection and anxiety. For his part, Fiddleford expected this to end eventually just because, when you get down to it, even people as eccentric as Emmy and Ford and him don’t end up in ‘three-man couples’, it’s just not done. Ford calls him out on it, Fiddleford points out that it was Ford, not him, that was planning on cuttin’ and runnin’, and Emma-May says they’re both acting like cowards. Ford reiterates that this was inevitable, seeing as college relationships end either in breakups or marriage and, well, Fiddleford thinks that’s quite an idea.
He and Emmy are already on Ford’s bed, so he tugs Ford down with them and it’s clear that Ford sees what’s coming by the way his eyes get huge. Fiddleford knows he’s got a crazy grin on, and he only gets about four words in before Emmy is crying again.
It’s surely not the most romantic place for a proposal, but, dingy and tiny though the room may be, it’s still the place the three of them have been able to be themselves the most often, so Fiddleford wouldn’t change a thing about the setting.
They finally get a bed big enough for all of them after moving to Gravity Falls. It’s one Emma-May finds for sale from some weird hippie couple in Albany who makes them, probably for people just like the three of them, Ford points out. Em makes a platform for it while Ford and Fiddleford go to pick it up, and when they’ve wrestled it into the house they fall onto the naked mattress together, exhausted and happy and having realized that they don’t have any sheets that’ll fit the huge thing and they’re probably going to have to make their own.
That night is the first they ever spend all sleeping in one bed. Emma-May curls up behind Ford and wraps her arm around him. Fiddleford watches them drowsily from across the mattress until he can’t keep his eyes open.
Probably only an hour later Fiddleford rouses, feeling the mattress move. Ford, still asleep, slowly advances toward him, Emmy’s arm apparently not enough to keep him in one place. In fact, Emma-May is following along behind Ford, who’s trying to take her arm with him. Fiddleford smiles, letting his eyes close again. He inches closer to Ford and Emmy, figuring that he ought to have seen this coming. Fiddleford slings his free arm over them both, palm resting on Emma-May’s ribs. As if they’ve planned it, Ford and Em heave identical deep, contented sighs. Fiddleford snorts at them. He’s signed up for a lifetime of never having a bed to himself again, with these two around.
Oh, well. There’s much worse fates.
7 notes · View notes
imtryingmyfuckingbe · 3 years ago
Text
Chapter Seven
Word Count: 4,773
________________________________________________
Blue’s hasn’t changed once since its opening. The same worn booths sit atop the same scratched floors. The tables bear the marks of past customers, names and quotes carved into the surface alongside sharpie drawings. Posters and polaroids cover the faded red walls, in addition to graffiti and the occasional bullet hole from long ago. And the speakers, state of the art in its day, wear worse by the night.
Still, Jimi Hendrix’s All Along The Watchtower blares, crackling. This type of music wasn’t meant for people to enjoy clearly, anyhow. Like the scratch of a vinyl, Hendrix and the Stones and others of the like deserve the character that comes along with low quality sound systems.
Even the patrons stay the same, having designated Blue’s as theirs in the seventies. Among the furniture, these people remain a fixture. Y/N can’t picture her bar without Gertie and Tom in the back booth, Magnolia at a high top, and Anthony at the pool table.
Bernie takes the cake as the longest running customer, and her personal favorite. He sat on his barstool at Blue’s grand opening and hasn’t left since. Johnny, the original owner, engraved Bernie’s name into a one inch by three inches plaque and screwed it into the step bar of his seat in the nineties. It marked Blue’s and Bernie’s twentieth year anniversary.
Y/N pushes past the hoard blocking the entryway. They ignore her, carrying on in their conversations despite her thrown elbows. A blessing and a curse, Blue’s brings in a faithful crowd; most nights offer standing room only. She supposes everyone, like herself, revels in the safety of familiar faces. What’s done and said at Blue’s stays written in the walls and walked into the floor.
Carter, the bartender, waves Y/N down, shaking an empty short glass. She nods her head, thumbs up, and he pours her whiskey. He slides it to the end of the bar top, towards Bernie’s empty stool. She points to the seat, eyebrows raised. Carter shrugs and mouths ‘bathroom, maybe’, before turning to work on a round of drinks.
Y/N sips her whiskey, moving towards the pool table. Anthony winks at her as he takes the winning shot, the eight ball sinking into the right pocket. Maurice grumbles, slapping a twenty into Tony’s open palm.
“Don’t play with this girl, boys!” Tony ribs, grabbing Y/N’s shoulder and shaking her. “She ain’t play fair and you won’ twin!”
The men around the table laugh, all too aware of Y/N’s penchant for hustling— the only downside to her reputation here.
“I’ll take winner, fellas.”
Tony groans. “That’d be me, dear. Now, be nice to an old man, would ya?”
Y/N snorts. “Why? ‘Cause you’re one foot in the grave?”
Tony scoffs while his friend chortles. “You gonna pin me to the table next?”
“Nah, you’d like that too much, grandpa. Where’s Chuckles anyway?”
Jerry speaks up from the back. “Ain’t seen him since you laid him flat, kid.”
Another round of laughter. Y/N shrugs off her jacket, hanging it on a hook on the wall. “All right, boys. We gonna play or keep gossiping?”
Tony fetches the rack from the table’s side. Y/N walks around the pool table, emptying the pockets and rolling the balls towards Tony. He arranges them at random, save for the centered eight ball. Y/N tuts in admonishment when he places two stripes at the bottom corners. She switches one out for a solid. Tony mumbles under his breath about her being stickler. She rolls her eyes.
“If we’re playing, we’re playing right. Tony, you break.”
He does, calling stripes and sinking two more balls before he scratches. Y/N follows suit, calling the pockets before she shoots. She sinks four balls before missing, backing up to give room for Tony. He leans over the table, back hunched, and scratches.
Y/N pats his back, laughter buoyant and booming around the crowd. This is where she feels most comfortable, she thinks. Not in the library, not finding despicable people to knock down a few pegs, but here. Surrounded by less than fortunate fools like herself.
Her father taught her pool in her youth, sneaking her into bars and passing on his wisdom. Once she mastered the basics— to the best of a twelve-year-old’s ability— he introduced hustling.
“People are gonna look at ya, small and unassuming, and make their conclusions. And you’re a girl; no one thinks girls can play a good game. So you gotta let ‘em assume, and then ya gotta make them regret it. Okay, kid?” He said when she grew red in the face from a wayward insult.
She took that and ran with it, intertwining it with her carefully crafted personality. Let them underestimate her. It caters to her needs, and puts her on the top.
When she sinks the eight ball, a chorus of boos and cheers break out. It’s a familiar comfort, like a warm blanket she earned by making it rather than buying it off the shelf. Tony grumbles under breath; Y/N’s games seldom last long. Wisely, he refused to place bets. Y/N declines another game in lieu of finding Bernie. He should be back by now.
She slips her jacket on, patting the pockets for the outline of her knife and wallet. The crowd parts faster this time, allowing her to reach Bernie’s stool with ease. To her chagrin, Bernie isn’t there, sipping on a Bud. She pulls her phone from her pocket to check the time.
“What the fuck,” she wonders aloud.
She sets her glass on top of a ten at Bernie’s seat. Perhaps he decided to mingle with the others; he’s as much of a gossip as the rest of them. She canvases the room, scanning faces and coming up empty. At the end of the bar, Carter pours a line of four beers. She elbows her way through the crowd, ignoring shouts and return shoves. Patrons take up the stools in front of Carter, but she pushes through them.
“Hey!” one protests.
“Can it! Carter, where the fuck is Bernie?”
He shakes his head, motioning to his ear. “What?”
She grunts, pulling closer to the bar. He leans forward. “Where’s Bern? I ain’t seen him all night.”
Carter shrugs. “He was here earlier. Some people came in and talked to ‘im then left, though.”
“What did they look like?” She demands, on edge.
“I dunno.”
“Did he go with ‘em?”
“No, but I went in the back and when I came out he was gone. Started to fill up so I figured I missed him coming back.”
“Did you hear what they said?”
“No, Y/N,” he says, exasperated. He slides the beers to the respective drinkers. “Why? What’s going on?”
She shakes her head and pushes back from the bar. The air is thick in her lungs and the heat from the surrounding bodies creates a wall of suffocation. Y/N elbows her way to the exit, escaping to the street. She leans on the brick wall, breathing in short bursts.
Okay, she thinks. Next step. She snatches her phone again, dialing Bernie’s number. It rings until it goes to voicemail. She tries again, starting her trek home. She can figure something out from there.
“This is Bernie, if you’re calling—”
She hits redial.
He keeps his volume on; her ringer wakes him up when he drinks himself into a stupor. It worked in the past. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” she begs.
She picks up her pace, her shoes abusing the ground. Her heart jumps into her throat with each step, and sweat coats her brow.
Redial.
People cast wayward glances in her direction before averting their eyes. She can imagine how she looks— wild hair, wild eyes. She takes larger steps.
Redial.
She crosses the street with abandon, and a taxi squeals to a stop before it can hit her. The driver shouts expletives and grievances, but she ignores him. She’s running now.
Redial.
She skids around the corner of her block, feet slipping on the slick pavement. Her hand grapples the first thing it can— a stranger who yelps— to stabilize herself. Her apartment building’s awning signals like a beacon. She sprints to it.
Redial.
She turns to scale her stairs, but stops short. Red stained rope hangs from the metal frame of the canopy, meeting in the middle around two wrists of a kneeling man. His head hangs. Blood drips from his face and into the forming pool at his knees. His right shoulder protrudes further than the left. A sealed file with ‘For the Hangman’ on its front is stapled to his chest.
“Bernie,” she whispers. Her phone goes to voicemail. She lets it.
A honk a few streets over startles her into action. She slips her phone into her pocket and jumps up the stairs, stumbling to her knees in front of Bernie. With a ginger grasp, she braces his cheeks and lifts his head. His eyelids flutter but don’t open. She catalogs his wounds: crooked nose, bruised eyes, cuts and gashes marring his cheeks, eyebrows, lips, fore—
“Fuck,” she whispers.
She pushes herself to her feet, reaching for the dagger in her pocket, and shreds the rope to pieces, unraveling it from his wrists. Bernie lurches forward. Y/N catches him by his shoulders, careful to point the blade away from him and lowers him as softly as she can. The staples gives a sickening squelch when she pulls the folder from his chest. Bile rises in the back of her throat.
“C’mon, old man,” she pleads, tapping his cheek. He groans.
She screeches in frustration. She can’t carry him enough for him to walk if he were lucid, let alone up four flights of stairs to her apartment, and she refuses to leave him to get her first aid kit. Can’t call for an ambulance: the old man doesn’t have health insurance. His blood flows onto her lap.
Tears drop to his cheeks, clearing lines through the grime, before she realizes she crying. She wipes them away, but they continue to fall. Her chest heaves with her breaths. “I’ve got you, Bern. I’ve got you.”
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the business card she swore she’d never use. Phone in hand, her thumb shakes as she dials the number. It rings three times before a gruff voice answers.
“Sam?” she croaks around tears.
“Who’s this?”
“Is this Sam Wilson, for fucksakes?”
“Yes. Y/N? What’s going on?”
“You get Stark on the phone, right now. I swear to god I’m going to kill him. He’s dead. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Y/N, what’s wrong?”
“They got him. They got Bernie. Get Stark here right now, or so help me I will burn this city down myself. Do understand?” She drops her head onto Bernie’s chest, rocking.
“Y/N, listen, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me where you are and what’s going on.” How can he act so reserved?
“No, Sam, you listen to me,” she spits, venom and sharp edges and glass. “You get someone here, right now! I didn’t want this shit, and now my friend is hurt. Please.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m outside of my apartment. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she groans.
“Okay, someone is on their way.”
The call cuts out and she lets her phone drop to the ground. She cradles Bernie in her lap, rocking back and forth. “It’s okay, Bern. It’s okay. You gotta wake up now,” she begs, sniffling.
She met Bernie when she first stepped foot into Blue’s. Wide-eyed and foolish, she walked in like she owned the place. Some two-bit fella had a problem with that and decided to do something about it. Bernie stepped in, and defused the situation before she could spit out a ‘fuck you’. Since then, he keeps an eye on her.
Four years, she’s known him. He told her about the shady deals her boss pushed on the side. Jeremy Cusset, her first case as the Hangman. She laughs around the stone in her throat, recalling the face Bernie pulled when he learned of her nickname. A beautiful cocktail of amusement and disgust.
She wipes his cheeks, smearing the blood. Its flow stopped, leaving his skin sticky and slick. His nose needs resetting, and his shoulder, too. She doesn’t want to think about what else. Her whispers go unanswered as she mumbles into his hair. Snot drips onto his skin. It’d be funny if it weren’t so pitiful; if he weren’t so still.
A hand grasps her shoulder. She reaches for the hilt of the knife by her side and twists as well as she can. The blade meets metal. Y/N looks up. Bucky looms over her, arm raised to block her swing. She drops the dagger.
“Bucky,” she whispers. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand.
He kneels beside her. “This Bernie?” She nods. “Okay, let’s get him up.”
Bucky helps Y/N to her feet, and then he reaches for Bernie. “Be careful. His shoulder might be dislocated. And I dunno what else.” He nods, tucking an arm under Bernie’s neck and the other under his knees.
She collects her phone, knife, and the file with haste, following Bucky to a sleek black car. Bucky slides Bernie in the backseat, and Y/N clambers in after him. Bernie’s head weighs heavy on her lap, blood smearing on her jeans when she shifts him. He groans again.
The acid on her tongue worsens the longer she stares. But she can’t look away. If she does, she fears he’ll disappear.
Street lights illuminate Bernie’s face in bursts, better than her stoop’s lighting. One gash on his left cheek begins its flow again. She presses the hand cradling his head to it, using the other to lift his shirt.
She gags.
Ribs protrude from beneath his skin at odd angles. Larger lacerations decorate his abdomen; red, red, red. Lines of welts bubble on his sides. She pulls his shirt back in place.
Bernie mumbles again, mouth falling open with a gasp. He lost— whoever did this ripped out—a top and bottom tooth. Rage burns a hollow warmth in her veins, keeping her centered and focused.
“Bucky, please,” she begs.
She meets his eyes in the rearview mirror. His hands grip the steering wheel tighter, the leather creaking. “Almost there, Y/N.”
She can’t be bothered to respond, not now. Instead, she presses her forehead into Bernie’s and her free hand to his chest. She slows her breathing to match his, her hand raising when he inhales and dropping when he exhales.
The car squeals as Bucky turns too fast into a parking garage. He slams the breaks in front of a pair of elevators, and alights from the car before it finishes rocking. The door creaks when he jerks it open. Y/N slides Bernie’s head to the side before clambering out.
With Bernie in Bucky’s arms, they huddle into the elevator. Floor 42, Bucky presses. He stares ahead at his own reflection, lips drawn tight and eyes narrow. Y/N stares at herself. Blood on her cheeks, on her clothes, on her hands.
The file.
She grips it tight, the paper crumpling under her force. Hangman. Her. She sniffles, preferring to look at herself than the folder.
The elevator lurches to a stop, faster than she expected, and somehow not fast enough. A nurse in a lab coat greets the trio, one hand on a gurney and the other motioning them forward. Her mouth moves and she stares at Y/N.
The words don’t register. Nothing does.
Not the doors shutting, not the nurse trying to get her attention. Not Bucky by her side, or the squeaking of shoes on the tiled floor from other racing staff members.
Just the rushing in her ears and the rage in her chest.
The nurse, having given up on Y/N, helps Bucky lay Bernie down. Bucky turns to Y/N, hands up and palms facing out. He approaches her like one would a wild animal: with caution and fear. He wraps a hand around her shoulder and ducks down to catch her eyes.
His mouth moves soundlessly, too.
Y/N shakes her head, blinking. “What?” she whispers.
The world surges into focus. Beeping and shoes and shouting. Bucky.
“I said, they’ve gotta check his wounds and see what needs to be done.”
“Um, probably a broken nose. Dislocated shoulder. It—his ribs looked weird. And he’s got a lotta cuts. They— they took out his teeth, Bucky.” She meets his gaze at last.
He stares back with palpable sympathy. Half of her wants to lean into it, to let him pull her into his arms; for him to take the burden of the anger and fear. The other half is all fire and brimstone and a rage so potent it beats beneath her skin like a second heart. That part can’t be coddled by gentle hands and eyes. It’s the part that wins.
She pushes off his hands. Emotions tucked away in their lock box, she speaks mechanically. “They stapled this file to his chest. It’s for me. I figure you’ll want to know what’s in it, too.”
He steps back, jaw clenching. “We don’t need to worry about that right now. We gotta get you cleaned up.”
Straightening her spine and drawing back her shoulders, she levels him with an insidious glare. “No. I can shower later. This takes precedence.”
His mouth opens and shuts, floundering. And then he nods. “Okay, come on. Stark and Steve are in a conference room, already.”
At the mention of Stark, her façade cracks. Her fingers clench and her mouth sets in a hard line. She bites the inside of her cheek. Bucky’s brows furrow, catching her slip up before she tucks it away.
“Okay.”
Their footsteps echo as Bucky leads her down twisting hallways. The further they wander into the recesses of the building, the less people rush around them. Her left foot marches to the cadence of Bernie; her right to Stark. She ignores the cowardly part of her mind whispering, my fault, my fault, my fault.
Bucky stops her with a hand on her bicep, drawing her into him. Without looking, he says, low and commanding in her ear, “I don’t know what you’re thinking or feeling, but I know that look. You got murder written all over your face.” He turns to face her, now. “It wasn’t Stark, okay? I don’t like the man, but he didn’t do this. If you wanna catch whoever did, you need a clear head. Got it?”
She nods, although forces her face expressionless and her lips set. Bucky could do anything short of laying the barbarians that did this at her feet, and she wouldn’t listen. Perhaps Stark didn’t wield the knife or tie Bernie up, but he did drag her into this, and that’s how they got Bernie.
Bucky sighs, but drops his arm. He opens the door and stalks in, Y/N on his heels. Any other day and she would stop to appreciate the room. Floor to ceiling windows looking out at the city. A white conference table with a clear top in the center of the room, taking up most of its space. Cushioned chairs stationed at its edges.
Hell, two weeks ago, walking into a room with Tony Stark sitting at the head of a table and Captain America looking out the window, she would jump to shake their hands. Or talk about the city. Maybe ask what it’s like to protect a city that half hates, half reveres them. While she seldom followed their comings and goings, knowing superheroes warded off the big bads of the world comforted her; made her job feel safer.
And then they stuck their grubby fingers into her life.
And then Bernie suffered the repercussions.
“You!” she accuses with a growl.
Stark stands, hands folded behind his back. Her fingers itch to claw that stupid goatee off his face. He says nothing, still and expressionless.
“This is your fault, you self-serving, cock sucking, son of a bitch!” she screeches, pushing past Bucky. “I’m going to kill you!”
Before she takes another step, Bucky’s arms wrap around her waist. Her feet lift off the floor. “Let me go, Bucky, I swear to god,” she pleads, voice cracking and struggling in his grip.
He pulls her closer. “Y/N,” he whispers in her ear. “Stop.”
She pushes at his arms, legs swinging. Anything to get momentum and get free. But Bucky holds steadfast, unbothered by her fight. If she had half her mind, she would hook her leg behind his knee and bring him to floor. But her mechanics malfunction, and she can’t think enough to breathe let alone take him down.
“That’s right, Barnes. Reign in your girl,” Tony goads from across the room.
“Tony!” Steve protests.
And Bucky? Bucky narrows his eyes, lips pursed. He retracts his arms, hands up, and Y/N wastes no time. She sprints across the room, hitting Tony full force. They crash into the wall, Y/N’s hands gripping the lapels of his Prada suit. She leans in close to his face, looking him dead in the eyes. Behind her is a commotion; objections from Steve and Bucky’s gravelly voice.
In a harsh growl, she whispers, “You will fix him, do you understand? Because if you don’t, I will burn this tower to the ground. I will tear you to pieces, and I will enjoy it. And the blood won’t be on my hands, Stark,” she spits. She raises a hand and swipes it down his cheek, smearing Bernie’s blood across his skin. “It will be on yours.”
With a final shove, she pushes back from him. He wipes at his skin, frowning in disgust when his hand comes away red.
“Y/N—”
She whirls around, accusing finger jabbing through the air at Steve. “Don’t you dare speak to me! None of you!” she shouts to the room, arms flung out. “None of you decided it wasn’t a good idea to bring some street rat into this? You, Mister Holier than Thou, self-righteous piece of shit. You think you’d have a sliver of common sense in the super serum brain yours, huh? No, you don’t get to say shit to me. Not you, not Stark. Not unless it’s to tell me Bernie is gonna make it with flying colors and you’re goddamn sorry. Do you understand?”
Steve says nothing, staring at her with drawn eyes and a clenched jaw. She huffs, stalking to the door. Bucky clears his throat, but follows.
“Dramatic,” Tony sing-songs.
She reaches in her pocket for her dagger, spinning on her heel. It sails through the air and embeds in the wall with a satisfying thunk next to Tony’s head. He touches his ear, blood transferring onto his fingertips.
“No,” she retorts, low and calm. “That was dramatic.”
“You missed!”
She scoffs, humorless and bitter. Biting her lip, she shakes her head. “No. I didn’t.”
With that, she turns from the room. She rests her back against the wall, unbothered to find her way through the halls. Her breathing comes out in short bursts. She slides to her haunches and rests her head in her hands.
Bucky emerges a few minutes later, or perhaps hours— she doesn’t know. Time rushes like a river here, and wades through molasses there. He stops next to her, eyes straight ahead. They stand in silence, save for hurried murmurs behind the closed door.
Y/N pushes to her feet with a grunt. Only then does Bucky look at her. He shakes his head and sighs, although his lips quirk up. How can he smile? She looks like shit: blood stains marring her clothes, eyeliner and mascara trailing down her cheeks, dried tear tracks. She feels worse: aching bones, screaming skin, weeping heart.
And Bernie. How can he smile when nurses prod and poke Bernie? Reset his shoulder? Wrap his ribs?
She doesn’t think she’ll smile again.
Bucky shakes the handle of her dagger. She sniffles, but nods gratefully before stowing it in her jacket once more. He walks back the way they came until they reach the elevators. The world rushes by in shouts and scuffling shoes. They stay silent.
The doors ding open and they walk in together. Y/N’s heart still pounds in her chest, but the fire faded to embers, exhaustion taking its place. She leans against the wall, looking up to avoid her reflection.
Bucky sighs. “We have rooms here where you can get cleaned up, or I can take you home.”
There’s not much of a choice, is there? With Bernie holed up in an operating room, tucked away in the Tower. Even with the burning discomfort of staying near Rogers or Stark, she refuses to abandon him. Not when she dragged him into this mess.
“I’ll stay,” she whispers around her raging thoughts.
He nods, pressing a new floor. Unlike elevators in her part of town, this one doesn’t whir or jolt. It moves gracefully, to where she questions if it moves at all. But the numbers count down and the doors open on a new floor.
Plants and pictures line the hallway, welcoming and warm. She aches to shred the canvases and break the pots. To claw at the leaves until they rain down.
She wonders if she’ll always want to destroy, destroy, destroy.
Bucky leads her to a vacant room, opening the door with a sweeping gesture. He nods his head for her to go inside when she hesitates. The room, albeit bare, is warm. Dark wood and rust colored accents. Navy blues and startling white. Dim lamps stationed in throughout.
It feels good to stain the wood floors with her boots and her presence. An impenetrable fortress made for super powered celebrities lowered by the likes of her.
Bucky clears his throat, waving his hand. She steps into the room, arms crossed. Even the air feels light and clean. He leads her around the room, explaining the set up in too many words, none of which register. She nods when he looks back at her, feigning interest.
“Great, thanks,” she interrupts when he keeps talking.
He sighs. “The bathroom is through that door. You can shower and stuff. I’m sure there’s some spare clothes in the closet or something. He likes to keep the rooms stocked.”
Another nod. “Right.”
She waits for him to leave, end of the tour and all that. Still he stands, silhouetted by the city. “What, Bucky?” she seethes, forcing herself to keep her rage and not succumb to fatigue. She can’t rest until she’s alone.
“Are you okay?” he whispers with too much pity and sadness. She stares. “Right. Stupid question.” He moves to the door, stopping in its frame. His fingers drum the wall. “If you need anything, just call for JARVIS. He’ll help.”
“What?”
“JARVIS?” he says to the room.
For a fleeting moment, Y/N worries she trusted a madman, but a voice, rumbling and low, responds. “Yes, Sergeant Barnes?”
Bucky gives Y/N a pointed look, as if to say ‘see?’. He pats the wall. “He’s an AI wired through the Tower. He can’t see in here; no cameras. But he’ll hear if you call. Any questions and you can ask him.”
Y/N nods. Her mind dully protests the threatened privacy, but her body is too heavy and her tongue too thick. Bucky nods, too, the door whispering shut behind him.
She takes another inventory of the room, this time for weak points and possible weapons. High up on the twenty-third floor from the elevator renders jumping suicidal, and the entrance the lone access point. Heavier display items provide additional weapons.
Satisfied, she ambles to the main door and locks it. In her solitude, the weight in her chest worsens, and her head pounds. Acid rises in the back of her throat. She stumbles to the bathroom door and slams it open. The lid of the toilet bangs when it meets the tank. She steadies herself with shaking hands.
She empties her stomach around chokes and groans. The second round of whiskey burns worse than the first, followed by the sandwich she ate for lunch. And she gives and gives until she pukes bile and coughs. She sags against the toilet, head resting on her forearms, and sobs, body shaking and cries echoing back at her from the bowl. 
8 notes · View notes
anarcoqueer1994 · 3 years ago
Text
4th of July, 1932
It was Steve's 14th birthday, not that anyone would remember, not when he shared a birthday with America's number one day to blow up things. Sarah even had to work today, regretfully telling him they would have a little birthday dinner tomorrow. She gives him a plate of deviled eggs to bring down. He doesn't give her trouble, he knows his ma has to work any shift she could get to support them. He'd bring in a little doing free lance drawing in the park, but not nearly enough.
Anyhow, the neighborhood was having a block party for the holiday, so he decided to go down and enjoy, knowing Bucky would be there. In fact, when he opened his door to head out, Bucky was already on his steps waiting for him.
"Happy Birthday, Stevie!" Bucky smiles at him before pulling him into a big hug, carefully maneuvering as to not drop the eggs. Usually this would be fine, he and Bucky hugged all the time. But Bucky turned fifteen a few months back and had had that growth spurt, putting him almost 8 inches taller than his friend. That's when Steve started to realize that he may like Bucky more than a friend, spending countless nights praying to God to fix him, to make that feeling go away.
But when Bucky hugged him, all those feelings flooded back in as usual, prayer not working. He wanted to pull away, remind Bucky that guys their age aren't supposed to be that affectionate with each other(at least that's what Mr. Barnes had said), but he didn't. He just leaned into it for as long as Bucky wanted.
When the hug finally did break, Bucky was beaming at his friend. "So ready to get down there? Mrs. Horvat made hot dogs, and I don't trust there to be too many for long."
The golden haired boy couldn't help but smile back drawn in by warmth radiating from his best friend. "Sure thing, Buck. I'm ready." Bucky throws his arm around his shoulder as they walk down together.
When they get to the festivities, Steve drops his plate off at a big table(actually crates with some old boards laid across them) on the side walk. They walk around, enjoying the day, gorging themselves on food. Steve notices that Bucky's arm barely leaves his shoulder the entire day. The increased height difference though, made him more conscious of it. It felt like Bucky was pulling him, closer than usual. But he couldn't find it in him to complain.
Unfortunately, Steve isn't the only one who noticed how close the boys are. Walking past a group of women, some being mom's of a lot of the guys they had gone to school with(both having dropped out to help their parents back home, who needed more than an 8th grade education anyways?) Steve heard one whisper to another "Do you think their mothers know?" The other replies "Seriously, boys that age shouldn't be so cozy..."
Steve could feel his cheeks going pink, self conscious as they keep walking. He pulls away from Bucky. Bucky for his part looks...sad, like Steve had hurt him by suddenly pulling away. He has been wrapped up in telling Steve about some pulp novel he had swiped the other day and was reading, he hadn't heard the comments.
"What is it, Stevie? Are you okay?" Worry coats Bucky's features.
"Uh...yeah Buck, just um...guys out age can't act like that, don't, um want anyone to think we are pansy's." Steve tries not to look hurt by his own words but is impossible when Bucky looks like he just got kicked in the stomach.
But he recovers, flashing a fake smile to his friend. "Yea...I guess you're right, Steve."
Steve decides to leave it at that even though he's known Bucky long enough to know his friend's feelings are hurt. They continue to walk the streets, conscious not to touch each other. Unfortunately this isn't enough for some of their ex-classmates.
A group of them sat on some front porch steps of a brownstone. There were a couple of guys and few dames, all who had been in school with the two boys. As they walked by, a boy, Danny Vesely, whispered something into a pretty little redhead's, Mary Anne Smith, ear, pointing at Steve and then to Bucky. Steve knows he should keep his mouth shut, but when he pointed at Bucky, it became personal. But before he can say something, Bucky is already in action. He had seen them point at Steve.
"What's so funny, Danny?" He snaps at the boy making the comment.
"Nothing Barnes, just commenting how cute you and your best girl look."
Steve turns red, looking at the ground. Steve knew he didn't look as strong or manly as other boys his age, his ma assuring him he was just a late bloomer. That didn't make it feel any better when he would be called a girl.
He can feel heat radiating of his friend, anger surging through him. Steve may be embarrassed but he looks up again, ready to back his friend up if their is a fight, putting on a tough face.
Bucky shoots back "You better shut your ugly mug!" Bucky looks ready to kill, hating that Danny is trying to humiliate him.... humiliate Steve.
"Calm down, Barnes. It's nice that you are defending you girlfriend's honor and all but you are being a little dramatic." Danny smirks. "I guess my big brother was right, all you guys who are light in the loafers are so dramatic."
Mary Anne and few of the other kids sitting there chime in in a sing-songy voice. "Bucky and Steve sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
Now Bucky is red as the girls start to giggle. Bucky knows he can't hit girls, but Danny and the three other boys laughing are fair game. He steps closer and before Danny can react, his fist makes contact with Danny's nose, causing it to bleed. One of his friends steps up to retaliate, but Steve steps between him and Bucky and by some grace of god actually lands a pretty hard punch in the face. But Bucky sees this and knows that the two other guys will soon be coming to back up their friends. He understands they will be out numbered and refuses to let Steve get hurt.
Without out thinking, he grabs Steve's hand, pulling him away from the group. They run until the others stop chasing them, hiding in an alley, and then...Steve laughs. The adrenaline of the fight and running away from guys together, felt good. Honestly doing anything with Bucky felt good. He feels silly for pulling away from Bucky earlier. Bucky smiles, because of course he does. Those mean words didn't mean anything, really, as long as his Steve was happy and smiling.
Darkness is starting to fall, and the fireworks show over the water was supposed to start soon. As they stood in the alley, still holding hands, Bucky spots a fire escape ladder. "Hey Stevie?"
"What?"
"Do you trust me?" Bucky asks plainly.
"Don't be stupid, Buck. Of course I trust you, punk." Steve replies like it is the most obvious thing in the world. Steve can't think of a single person he has ever trusted more than his best friend from preactically the day he was born. Their mother's had been friends and Bucky, who was a who was a whole 16 months older, wanted to hold "the baby" all the time. It was "his baby," Of course not realizing he was a baby himself, but as he got older, he never stopped wanting to hold "his baby," even if Steve was too dense to realize that.
Bucky drags him to the fire escape. "Follow me,Jerk." He smiles and of course Steve does follow him, They make it the top, until they are on tha roof. "What are we doing up here?" Steve questions.
"Watching the fireworks." Bucky replies simply with a smile that Steve can't help but mirror back. Bucky hesitantly takes Steve's hand again, and when Steve doesn't pull away, he laces his fingers with his friends, taking him to a spot on the roof that seemed clean enough to sit.
They wait for the fireworks, and when they finally start, Steve can only focus on Bucky and the way his face lights ups as the colors explode in the sky. He isn't sure what compels him to do this, but he rests his head on Bucky's shoulder. He feels the brunette tense for a moment, before he wraps his arm around Steve's shoulder.
He whispers softly "Hey Stevie?"
"Yea?" Steve's voice equally as quiet.
"Did you know that these fireworks aren't for the Fourth of July? Who cares about a dusty old country anyways? They are for you to celebrate the birthday of the best fella in the world." Bucky says in a matter-of-fact manner, you would be forgiven for thinking he actually believes this.
But he has been saying this to Steve every year since he learned to talk, so Steve was expecting this. It still didn't change the way Steve ended up blushing, this year feeling like there was more weight behind his words. "Thanks, Buck..."
"Don't thank me, it's true." Bucky insists before continuing. "One more question, Stevie."
"Shoot." Steve responds, head still firmly planted on Bucky's shoulder.
"What do you want for your birthday?" Bucky asks plainly, but Steve could feel Bucky's hand lazily stroking his shoulder.
Steve takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He know what he wants...and he figured after the events of today, he could ask. If Bucky is repulsed, he can play it off like a joke. In a voice almost too small to be audible, Steve answers "A kiss..."
Bucky's hand stills on Steve's shoulder before pulling away. Steve begins to panic, lifting his head off of Bucky's shoulder. He starts to make up a lie in his head, to brush this off, and never talk about it again. But when he looks up at Bucky, he had adjusted so he was sitting in front of Steve now, smiling. He softly replies "Okay." And Steve feels like his heart will beat right out of his chest and fly away. He wonders if Bucky would catch it for him.
His hands go clammy as he is watching Bucky lean in, slowly, almost too slowly. Steve closes his eyes, nervously leaning to meet Bucky, and their lips connect and it's better than the fireworks going off around them. It's chaste, and awkward, the awkwardness of a first kiss for both of them but unbelievably sweet.
When they pull away, both are smiling contently. Bucky takes his place back next to Steve, wrapping both arms around him now, threatening to never let him go. As they watch the rest of the show, he says "Happy Birthday, Stevie."
21 notes · View notes
thetomorrowshow · 3 years ago
Text
unless you take your army back ch. 5
First  -  Previous  -  Next  -  Read on AO3!
yo once again giving you guys a chapter how’s everyone doing? My posting dates will never again be on tuesday lol expect wednesdays or fridays when possible <3
anyways other business if you see an A/N in here somewhere (it’ll be between brackets) lmk and I’ll edit it out
Enjoy :)
cw: food, eating disorders, discussion of injuries
~
Jack didn’t leave to sell papes the next morning, instead bringing a cup of coffee and some porridge to Crutchie, then settling in beside him with a real fancy sketchbook and a charcoal pencil.
The coffee wasn’t that great, but Crutchie drank it all, hoping the energy would distract him from the uncomfortable tightness of his fresh bandages. Only one of the cuts that had split open was one that had needed stitches (Katherine had snipped the thread and pulled it out three days ago), but they would all probably scar. At least he already liked to wear long shirts and pants.
The porridge was fine, but rich. After about four bites, Crutchie rested the bowl on the windowsill. Just weeks ago, he would’ve been able to scarf down twice that amount in a matter of minutes, but now he could barely handle eating enough to feed a baby. He was sure he’d get better faster if he’d just eat more, but he just--couldn’t.
This wasn’t even the first time Crutchie had seen kids have trouble eating. At least half the newsies who did a stint in the Refuge came back uneasy around food, too accustomed to there being too little to go around. A lot of food was a trick, just the right amount was too much to stomach, and the little bit that they felt they needed wasn’t enough to keep them going.
So Crutchie knew that what he was going through with his food aversion was normal--expected, even. The frustrating problem was that Crutchie knew how to fix it. He had seen the others go through this, had watched Jack and Race and Specs help others, had even guided Tommy Boy through recovery himself just a few months ago. He knew the signs, he knew how to work through it, and yet he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t snap himself out of it.
Just the thought of food made him queasy, scared, uncertain of what was to come. When the guards brought food, it meant the respite was over. It meant scraps shoved down his throat as quickly as possible, followed by a day of grueling, pointless work with no breaks. He didn’t have the time to finish this bowl of porridge. More than a few bites and he was going to be tardy, the guards were going to beat him and he would fall and he wouldn't be able to get back up, not again not again not again--
“Crutchie, you gonna finish that?”
Crutchie looked up from his lap to see Jack, concern creasing his brow. He shrugged, not sure if he could even pretend to smile. “I didn’t see you eat, wanted to save some for you.” He didn’t need anyone’s help. He knew how to handle this.
Jack frowned. “Nah, I ate on the way up, nicked a bun. Is there some . . . other . . . reason?”
Stupid Jack Kelly and his ‘subtle’ prodding. Crutchie stretched his arms out a bit, affecting a casual look. A bandage rubbed against a raw patch of his chest, but instead of burning, it . . . itched.
That meant he was starting to get better, right? Or was it infected or something? Whatever it meant, it was a good excuse.
“Not really, just been itchin’ all mornin’, so I ain't all that hungry,” he explained, scratching his stomach for emphasis. “Bit bothering, y’know?”
He was sure he didn’t quite have Jack convinced, but it was enough for him to drop the matter. After all, Jack was under the impression that Crutchie had eaten a whole apple the morning before, and he’d been fairly good at emptying bowls of soup all week (not necessarily into his mouth, but Jack didn’t need to know that).
After a moment’s hesitation, Jack smiled. “Hey, itchy, huh?” He lightly punched Crutchie’s knee, which also didn’t hurt like he expected. “That’s good, means stuff is startin’ ta close up and heal.”
Crutchie nodded, feeling something in his chest try to jump excitedly. Even after falling so badly last night, he was getting better. That meant that maybe soon, he could be right back out there, hawking headlines and getting enough pity from his regulars and strangers to make twice the amount he usually did.
Thinking of it-- “Jack, why ain’t you out sellin’?”
Jack looked away--ashamed? Guilty? What? Had he gotten in trouble with the bulls again already? Jack muttered something, then buried his face in his new sketchbook, the tips of his ears burning red.
“That ain’t gonna cut it,” Crutchie said incredulously. “Who d’ya think I am, Race? I ain’t distracted that easy.”
Jack huffed, but didn’t drop his sketchbook. In a barely audible voice, he said very quickly “I soaked the Delanceys yesterday and the fellas think I oughtta stay away from ‘em and maybe take a day off ta give ‘em time ta forget about it.”
Okay, but attacking the Delanceys was something Jack did on a weekly basis. The Delanceys weren’t bright enough to carry a grudge overnight, and they were in a constant state of goading Jack, so what was different about this time?
Then Crutchie remembered their argument last night, what Jack and Davey had told him about how Oscar and Morris had been talking.
“Have they, uh,” Crutchie started, quiet, “been talking about . . . uh, ‘bout me . . . all week?”
Jack stiffened from behind his sketchbook, but nodded jerkily. “Tha’s what Specs said, anyhow.”
“Right.” Crutchie swallowed, looking away out the window. Buttons was out there, looped around a fire escape, calling something through cupped hands. The Delanceys were somewhere out there too, and could be talking about him that very moment, maybe even making plans to come after him. There was no way he could stop them, no way anyone could stop them. After all, Jack couldn’t be here all the time, and Kloppman was old, wiry but feeble compared to Oscar and Morris. They could take the man down in no time, then be up here and Crutchie would have nowhere to go and no way to escape.
Crutchie was suddenly very glad that Jack was here.
There were a few moments of silence, during which Crutchie continued to watch Buttons. His grin was visible even from this distance, growing wider any time he managed to sell a paper or two. Buttons had been having trouble selling lately--he was a little timid, too shy when it counts--so it was nice to see him having some success.
The lady talking to him now seemed nice, by the way Buttons was nodding and had fully disentangled himself from the fire escape to converse with her. The lady turned slightly, her face visible under her sun hat, and--hey! That was one of Crutchie’s regulars! She bought a paper on her way to visit her mother-in-law every other day, and always passed Crutchie’s selling spot on purpose. It was nice to see her again, almost . . . sentimental. Crutchie never thought he would feel almost misty-eyed over some lady whom he briefly interacted with a handful of times a week, but here he was. More than miss her, he missed being out there, he supposed.
“Hey, Crutch?”
Crutchie startled out of his thoughts. The woman was no longer there, Buttons once again attaching himself to the fire escape. Jack was watching him, a carefully disguised look of something on his face. Crutchie raised his eyebrows.
“Uh, so, I missed a union thing, what with last night,” Jack said. “So I’m gonna hafta do it today sometime. That cool with you?”
“What sorta thing?” Crutchie asked suspiciously. If it involved reporters and pictures and all that, Crutchie was not going to allow it to happen in here.
Not that you could stop it, a nasty voice in the back of his mind whispered, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. Jack could do anything to you right now. He was pretty angry last night, after all. You know what anger leads to.
Crutchie swallowed drily. He didn’t need to think about that.
“Oh, just a guy I gotta meet with,” Jack said, far too casually. He made a show of scratching his head. “He might bring another couple o’ fellas with him, so I’s just . . . lettin’ you know.”
Okay, so this wasn’t something he could stop. Great. That calmed him down so much. Crutchie gripped the blanket over him tightly, trying to not show that his hands had begun to tremble. He was fine, he didn’t need Jack getting all worried over nothing. It was just some . . . unknown guy. With bodyguards. Coming into the room to have a discussion with Jack.
“Hey. Hey.”
Crutchie pulled himself from his spiral to see Jack laying his hands over his. “It’s okay,” Jack said seriously. “I can chat with ‘em in another room, or outside. You don’t oughtta have guys in here that you ain’t know.”
Crutchie released his grip, more to assuage Jack than his nerves. He nodded, not sure what he was even expected to say. What if a fight broke out? And Jack was all alone, against three or four guys? He couldn’t let Jack be alone.
“Nah, it’s fine,” Crutchie said hoarsely. Wow, he needed something to drink. He hadn’t noticed his throat drying up. “I uh, I can be your second?”
The words were barely out of his mouth before he regretted them. Of course Jack didn’t want him as his second! He was just some stupid, useless, injured cripple, and Jackhad to still be mad at him for last night. He’d want Davey there, probably--Davey was one of the union heads too, right? And Davey was so good at talking things through and being all smart. All Crutchie could do was make people laugh or feel bad for him--great for selling papes and living on the street, terrible for union business.
“Would ya?” Jack asked. He almost looked a little bit relieved, which took Crutchie aback. “You know how I can get. It’s--it’s nice, havin’ somebody backin’ me up. ‘Specially you, Crutch, you’s real good at talkin’ to folks.”
The air left Crutchie’s lungs. Was he? He was pretty good at selling to just about anyone. Jack used to joke that he would be able to sell a pape to Pulitzer himself for a dollar, without the man even realizing it was his own paper or too high a price. Jack would say that to just about anyone who would listen, actually.
How had Crutchie forgotten that?
“Who’s these folks, then?” Crutchie asked, shifting a bit so that his head was almost level with Jack’s. He liked to think that he was pretty accustomed to the broken ribs at this point--they hurt, but he could now sit up without even breathing heavy. After the week he’d had, Crutchie counted that as a win.
Jack’s carefully casual air was back, clear in the stiff lines of his body and the forced half-grin on his lips. “Just some guys who got a say in newsie union stuff, y’know? From one o’ the other turfs.”
That made sense, actually. The Manhattan newsies weren’t the only ones in the union, after all. In fact, if what Elmer had excitedly told him was true, Davey had shook hands with Spot Conlon and led him straight to Pulitzer’s office, after Conlon had spoken at Davey’s rally--
Oh.
Oh no.
“You’s bringin’ Spot Conlon to the place we sleep?!”
“It was--”
“No no no, lemme get this straight,” Crutchie said, incredulous. “Spot Conlon, leader of the Brooklyn borough, is comin’ here. To Manhattan’s lodging house. Now I know that Brooklyn joined the strike, but there is no way we’s become friends with Brooklyn in the two weeks I ain’t been around, and ya don’t show allies where ya sleep.”
“They already knows where we sleep, there’s a huge sign on the buildin’!” Jack shot back. He dropped his work and gestured widely. “Manhattan newsboys lodgin’ house, in big ol’ letters, smack on the front! Was it s’posed ta be a secret? Or do ya think they just can’t read?”
“It’s the principle of the matter,” Crutchie replied stubbornly. “Ya don’t invite them into your home, you hold ‘em at arm’s length for when they in’vitably scab!”
“Well, that ain’t no way ta treat your allies,” a voice said from the doorway.
Crutchie and Jack both looked up to see the man himself, an unimpressed Spot Conlon, with two lackeys--and also Racetrack. Race waved casually.
“Hey Jack, hey Crutch!” Race said. “Spot’s here ta meet with ya.”
Jack strode across the room, spat and shook with Spot, anxiously adjusting his hat with his other hand. “Nice ta see ya, Conlon,” he said, the geniality in his voice a stark contrast from his heated arguing moments before. Crutchie snorted. Jack shot him a glare.
“So, what’s sayin’ we get straight ta business, Kelly?” Spot suggested, walking further into the room without invitation. Race tipped his hat at them all, then stuck his cigar in his mouth and took off. “This here’s Hotshot, and the other’s Sharpshooter,” Spot threw out, gesturing at the two guys with him. They each nodded in turn.
“Right,” Jack said, “This is Crutchie, he’s my second.”
Spot turned a piercing gaze on Crutchie. Crutchie felt his face heat up as Spot’s sharp eyes took in the patchwork of yellow-brown bruises on his face and throat, the scabbed-over gash on his temple, the splint wrapping his left arm. Finally, he turned away to face Jack.
“You met with Joe of late?” Spot asked. Jack nodded.
“Saw ‘im yesterday. No complaints from his side--he’s sayin’ they’s already noticed circulation goin’ up. You’s been meetin’ with the Journal and the Sun, yeah?”
Spot gave an affirmative nod. “We got ‘em where we want ‘em,” he said with a chuckle. Crutchie waited for him to elaborate. He did not.
Jack seemed sort of disconcerted--Crutchie wondered if Spot could tell. This was all happening so suddenly. Moments ago, Crutchie hadn’t even known anyone was coming. Now there were three Brooklyn newsies standing over his bed, and he couldn’t do anything to defend himself or make them leave. Brooklyn was always angry, always jeering, doing nothing to strengthen the tentative peace they had come to a few months ago.  Really, Crutchie had good reason to be wary. Brooklyn newsies had more than once kicked his crutch out from under him.
Spot and Jack were talking about something, but Crutchie couldn’t really pay attention to them. The one called Sharpshooter was staring him down, in a way that said both I’m-trying-to-intimidate-you and I-don’t-need-to-intimidate-you-weakling. Hotshot was doing the exact same thing to Jack, but Jack seemed unbothered. Crutchie was pretty sure he wasn’t pulling that off near as well. He hadn’t been stared at like that--like he was a piece of dirt that stubbornly remained as you scrubbed at a window--since he’d been . . . there. The Refuge.
Crutchie turned his gaze to the window. Buttons was out of sight, the fire escape likely blazing hot in the sun. There weren’t very many people visible whatsoever--it was stifling out, which was probably why Brooklyn was already here. Selling would have to be done in a very particular fashion today--morning, at the coolest, when everyone was headed for work, then around the lunch hours, then the last few in the evening. Crutchie felt bad for the likely sunburned newsies, frantically trying to sell all their papes in those short windows of time, clothes sticking to them with sweat and the hot air weighing them down.
“Hey, Crutch?”
Crutchie looked back to the conversation. Jack was watching him expectantly, as was Spot. Crutchie tried to not look clueless--he had really been zoning out, hadn’t he? How much time had passed? Why was everyone looking at him?
“D’you mind answerin’ any questions Spot has? I’m gettin’ us all some water.”
Crutchie nodded. It couldn’t be that hard, right? He had totally lost track of the conversation, but he knew a fair bit about what had happened and what was going to happen with the union, mostly from Jack rambling in the afternoons when the silence became too much for one of them.
“So,” Spot said brusquely as soon as the door closed behind Jack. “All that from the strike?”
Crutchie blinked. All what? He needed a bit more context. He should’ve been listening. He opened his mouth to ask, then saw Spot vaguely waving at his body. Oh.
“Nah,” Crutchie mumbled, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “Some of it, yeah. Mostly the Refuge, though.”
Spot sucked a breath in through his teeth, and Hotshot turned away. “Looks like you was lucky to make it out alive.”
“Oh, yeah,” Crutchie said bitterly. He almost laughed. “By the end there I was ’lucinatin’ so bad I thought I’d been buried already. Probably I was hours from bein’ gone forever.”
Silence. He’d made it awkward, hadn’t he? Crutchie tried to come up with some useful purpose for Spot Conlon to know this, like maybe he’d get pity or sympathy or something and the Brooklyn newsies would leave him alone, but it honestly sounded worse than Conlon straight up hating him. Crutchie was tired of being pitied. He was tired of being a charity case.
“How long?” That was Sharpshooter, his voice pitched a lot higher than Crutchie expected. It didn’t quite match his height and dark eyes.“Was you there, I means.”
“A week, I think. It’s sorta blurry.”
Spot whistled. “Snyder musta had it out for ya. All that in just a week? I’s had boys in there for months come out lookin’ better.”
Again, Crutchie almost laughed. “Everybody has it out for the crip,” he said bluntly, his eyes on his hands as he twisted the blanket between his fingers. “Throw in my personal connection ta Jack Kelly union leader, and a week is a long time ta be lastin’.”
Crutchie looked up. Spot was giving him a strange look--it wasn't pity, like Crutchie expected. It wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t even shock that he was still alive. It was--he didn’t know. And then it was gone.
“Crutchie, right?” Spot asked, glancing out a window aloofly. Crutchie nodded. “You’s a good kid. If you ever finds you in some sorta trouble . . . you’s welcome in Brooklyn.”
What?
He understood that they were allies, but allies did not mean that anyone from either turf was allowed to just go wandering over. The only person who had ever been allowed to was Race, who sold in Brooklyn--why, Crutchie didn’t know. Crutchie didn’t think anyone knew. There were plenty of good spots in Manhattan--why did Race trek all the way to a hostile turf just to sell papes? The point was, this wasn’t something that just happened. Ever. Brooklyn and Manhattan had been on bad terms for as long as Crutchie had been a newsie, and before that as far as anyone could remember.
Crutchie didn’t have much more time to think about it, though, as Jack reentered the room, balancing three glasses of water carelessly enough that it made Crutchie tense up, as if ready to catch one when it dropped. One he handed to Spot, one to Crutchie, and the last to Hotshot. Sharpshooter rolled his eyes and swiped it, half-draining the glass before handing it back.
“Crutchie clear anything up?” Jack asked. Spot continued to stare at Crutchie, a slight crease between his brows.
“Yeah, a few things,” Spot answered absently. “A few.”
The discussions continued for another ten minutes or so, Jack eventually convincing Spot that they were not currently trying to lower the price even further (“I’ve already got Bill down ta fifty-two per hundred, why should I stop?”), and got him to agree to work closely with Davey when Jack wasn’t available. That seemed to be all they could resolve for the time being without attacking each other, which was probably the most that had ever been done by a Manhattan newsie and a Brooklyn newsie working together. When Spot went to leave, though, he turned to Crutchie.
“Ol’ Jack ever oversteps, ya know where ta find us,” he said with a firm nod. “Any guy from Brooklyn will bring ya to me, jus’ say the word.” With that, he was gone, Sharpshooter and Hotshot marching after him.
Jack froze, halfway to gathering the two glasses from where they’d been set on the floor, his mouth agape. “Wh--” he tried. Crutchie could have laughed. He didn’t. But he could’ve. “Did Spot Conlon jus’--” he whipped around to stare at Crutchie. “What’d you talk about?” he demanded. “How’d ya get Spot Conlon ta make you an honorary Brooklyn boy?”
Crutchie shrugged. He wasn’t quite sure what had passed between them himself, and he also wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. It wasn’t like he’d done anything. Spot barely knew who he was. The first time they met had been today.
“W-well, if you isn’t gonna eat that, hand it to me.”
The change in subject took Crutchie by surprise, but he passed the partly-eaten bowl of porridge to Jack, who gave him one last suspicious glance before leaving the room.
Crutchie hated being alone these days--the only things worth doing were sleeping and practicing walking. The second one was off the table after yesterday, and he was sick of sleeping, but when there was nobody around there was nothing to do but think. Nothing to do but fall deeper and deeper into a dark chasm that yawned open in his mind. Nothing to do but slowly become more and more paranoid. . . .
He wished he had asked Jack for some more water before he left. Not that Jack wasn’t coming back or anything, it just would’ve been nice to not force him to make another trip.
When Jack returned some ten minutes later, though, he was not alone. Holding his hand was Katherine, laughing at something Jack had said before they entered the room. Crutchie shrunk away. He didn’t want to see Katherine--she would try to pay for a doctor to come see him or insist on checking each of his wounds or something equally mortifying.
“Look who turned up!” Jack said brightly, and Crutchie tried not to frown too obviously.
“Hi, Katherine,” he said politely. “How’re you?”
“Oh, Crutchie, you look so much better!” Katherine exclaimed. Crutchie examined her face carefully. Mostly the truth, but something in her eyes told him that she was still worried about him. “Look at you, sitting up and everything!” a pause. “Have you, um, been eating well?”
There it was. Crutchie hadn’t seen himself in the mirror in a while--every time someone carried him to the washroom, he’d resolutely avoided it. He knew that his face was still multicolored from the various stages of healing his bruises were in, but he hadn’t even thought that he might look malnourished. Elmer’s bracelet was pretty loose on his wrist, now that he was thinking about it. His unwrapped elbow practically jutted out of his skin.
Great. He’d spent a week in the Refuge and had come out looking like the most pitiful creature ever. He was so weak--it had been such a short amount of time! And now he’d been in bed for just as long, when he should’ve been recovered by now!
“Been workin’ on it,” Crutchie managed, trying not to let his thoughts show too obviously. “Hard ta get back up ta where it’s s’posed ta be, y’know?”
“Yeah, he’s been eating less,” Jack added. “It happens, but he’s been tryin’ ta eat most everything I bring him.”
Crutchie resolutely did not blush or look away. There was no reason for Katherine to believe anything to the contrary. Still, she and Jack watched him carefully for a few moments, then exchanged a look. Was he supposed to say something?
“Jack said there was quite the scare last night,” continued Katherine. “Are you feeling okay after your fall?”
Crutchie nodded. He wasn’t lying, actually. He did feel better than he had all week, even if all of his injuries felt raw from falling. Nothing was hazy anymore, nor particularly sharp. It felt almost normal, if the pain could be ignored. He was getting better.
“Why’re you here, Kath?”
Katherine’s smile strained. “Can’t a girl check up on her best friend?”
Crutchie leveled a stare of his own at her. This was the first he’d heard of being best friends. She had to have some sort of ulterior motive--a doctor or a medicine or something stupid like that. He hated to think it, but couldn’t she just leave him alone?
“Okay, I came--of my own volition, by the way--to ask you if you’d be willing to be seen by my family doctor--”
“Nope, thanks,” Crutchie said loudly, glaring hard enough to bore a hole in Katherine’s head. “As you can see, I’s healin’ up just fine.”
“It wouldn’t cost anything, my father--”
“I won’t be botherin’ your father, if it’s all the same ta you,” Crutchie retorted. “Nor no one. I’m gonna be out there sellin’ again soon, an’ if I decides I need a doctor, I’ll save up the cost myself and see ‘im when I feel like it.”
Katherine and Jack exchanged another look, one that told Crutchie they thought he was being stubborn. And so what if he was? Stubbornness had kept him alive countless times. His particular brand of stubborn had been considered both adorable and inspiring in the past. Maybe he was being annoying, but so what? Was it why they wouldn’t listen to him? Did acting annoying really mean he was stripped of his worth to them, his autonomy?
After a long staring contest with Jack, Katherine huffed and rolled her eyes. “Boys,” she muttered, turning away from both of them. Jack sighed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. The lines of Katherine’s shoulders were sharp and tight, radiating tension that was echoed in Jack’s nervous stance.
Crutchie picked at the blanket. Why did every conversation seem to turn into a fight lately? He just wanted people to respect his choices. Heck, maybe he would take Spot up on that offer. It sounded nice to be around people who had no history with him, a fresh slate, a new standard to set. He would get to prove he was strong to them, instead of being cooped up because they were too afraid of how broken he was.
“Well,” Katherine said, straightening her shoulders and facing them again, “take off your shirt, then.”
Crutchie choked. So did Jack. “Uh, what?” Jack sputtered.
“Buy me dinner first,” Crutchie managed.
Katherine rolled her eyes. “You want to be back out there, don’t you?” she asked Crutchie. He nodded, a little scared of where this was going. “I need to make sure you’re healing well enough, if you won’t see a doctor. Then I’ll tell you when you can continue to sell newspapers. And Jack? Get us something to drink.”
8 notes · View notes
Text
I Taste Honey but I Haven’t Seen the Hive - Chapter Two
Ao3,   MasterPost,   C.1
Relationships: eventual queer-platonic intruality, platonic logicality (and mentioned platonic relationships)
Warnings: swearing, mild body horror, negative self-thoughts/mental state, guilt. 
Word Count: 2,822
Patton woke up the next morning to find not a single disgusting token hiding away in his room, and that was after half an hour of semi-paranoid investigation. While he did find a patch or two of what looked like shedded dog’s hair and a snapped nail, they were scattered on the carpet as though left by accident. He already knew that Remus’ body was naturally more of a debris-machine than that of a scrappy pet, occasionally shedding off parts of his body like a constantly regenerating zombie. He decided then that Remus hadn’t been secretly trying to prank him, after all.
Now, being the embodiment of emotions, Patton was almost always spot-on identifying which emotions were which. That was why he could say, with perfect certainty, he had never quite had this mix of emotions before. And if he was honest, he didn’t really want to think about it enough to learn; he didn’t want to think about the night before at all.
Pushing the events out of his mind (not repression! He argued to himself, just thinking about something else for a while!), Patton carried on with his morning routine. That always took exceeding amounts of time, anyway, thanks to the numerous distracting things littering his room. What could have taken fifteen minutes was usually closer to an hour or so, but that was why Patton got up early! 
Well, that, and the fact that he usually didn’t sleep very well, but he preferred to not focus on that. 
That day, Patton decided, was not to be one for focusing on anything bad. He’d had a rough night, oh sure, but he’d woken up more refreshed than expected and was still riding the high of physical affection (despite its questionable source). He could feel that good, excited mood he had on occasion lifting him, and such an energy was just what he needed to go downstairs, start his day, and try to convince Logan into finally letting him help cook. 
Logan never agreed, of course, because he was the only side that had any skill in preparing food. But Patton never stopped trying, his fiery history with the kitchen notwithstanding!
Patton rose up in the living room, instinctively at his usual place. He took a second to appreciate the trinkets, odds and ends, and personal effects littered around the room. That kind of personality-infused mess always made him feel strangely fond. Reflective, even, upon how and why each item had come to lay where it was just then.
The smell of fresh food and the crackling of a skillet got him quickly back on track, though. Grinning, Patton made for the kitchen. 
“Morning, Logan!” He greeted him in cheer.
Logan startled, spinning on his heel a bit too fast. He didn’t share Patton’s positivity, no, he looked worried. 
“Patton! How are you ‘holding up’, as they say, this morning?” He said softly, like if he thought a loud voice could break something now. Patton cringed.
“Oh, I’m doing fine!” Memories of the night before pushed against his skull, and it was everything he could do to beat them back. But he was good at that sort of thing. “How are you?”
It was an obvious redirection. Logan pressed further:
“You sank out so abruptly last night. The others were- we were all concerned for your wellbeing,” he glanced away, chewing the inside of his lip. “That, and… Virgil informed me that, before he went to bed, he saw Remus leaving your room,” Logan’s voice dropped, “He didn’t upset you in any way, I hope?”
“No!” The exclamation burst forth from Patton with a ferocity he didn’t know he had. It was defensive even to his own ears, and he flushed in embarrassment. “I mean, no, he didn’t upset me! We were just-” cuddling? “-talking.”
Logan tipped his head sideways, disbelief obvious on him.
“...Talking?” 
“Yup, talking!” 
“You were talking to Remus?”
Patton pouted performatively, setting a hand on his hip as he doubled down.
“Of course I was, Logan! He’s an interesting fella, you know.”
“I know that,” Logan rolled his eyes, “I didn’t know you got along with him at all, however.” 
Patton- to both his own and Logan’s surprise- didn’t say anything at all to that. He barely nodded before he left the kitchen, calling out an excuse that he forgot as soon as it was out anyway. It was almost rude, and he knew he’d be dreadfully ashamed of it later. What was another little regret on the pile after all?
Logan had things to attend to, and Patton didn’t want to hang around and distract anyhow. At least, that was a good enough excuse for him to use as he sped out of the kitchen to find his next distraction. 
 Patton put the talk with Logan out of his mind without any trouble. His plans for a good day would not be so easily foiled by one concerned friend- who really had no reason to be concerned in the first place, in Patton’s humble opinion. Besides, breakfast with everyone was still nice! He’d gotten roped into a very enthusiastic conversation with Roman- one that got as increasingly loud, as was usual for the two- and when Remus joined in, it wasn’t too terribly awkward anymore. 
The rest of the morning was inoffensive, if a bit slow-going as Patton got all his work done. The afternoon was much the same, but he did get to spend a while with Virgil! (Who must’ve heard from Logan not to ask about the night before, mercifully). 
Evening rolled around, though, and with it Patton found that he’d made short work of his jobs. With the deficit of busy-work, it really couldn’t be helped if his mind started to wander- and what a dangerous thing that could be.
It was hard not to think of Remus. To not recall the… the softness with which he had treated Patton, something that the intrusive side hadn’t even seemed capable of before that. He’d been downright empathetic, and Patton still didn’t know how to take that. He’d done nothing to earn that kindness, not really, and certainly not from Remus of all people. He wasn’t sweet, or considerate, and calling him sentimental sounded like a joke more than anything.
‘Sounded like’, there was the key word, Patton mused. However long he spent thinking it over, it became more and more clear that this was yet another thing he’d misunderstood. 
Months ago only, he’d honestly believed that none of Remus’ suggestions could be genuine attempts to contribute, and now he helped them balance almost all their creative works as part of the team. He’d proven at every turn that he was honest, yes, but he was not shallow, and Patton knew he’d only just scratched the surface of Creativity. 
But that was besides the point. It was besides the point and Patton didn’t want to think about how little he knew. 
The point was, he wanted to learn. He had to. Even if it proved him wrong about everything- especially then!
So there Patton stood, shifting from foot to foot, Remus’ door staring him in the face. He was stalling, he knew, but his fraught thoughts also knew his intentions were not for self-improvement alone. He wanted to repay Remus, repay him for the strange and gentle and impossibly amazing comfort he’d given to him. He’d given him what he’d been missing- affection, willing affection- but what did Patton have to offer in return?
That was the scary part. Thinking of what he’d be asked to do.
But he still had to reach out and risk it. He had to know. 
Patton raised his hand, shaking, tilted back to knock. And there the hand hovered, untouching the splintering and algae-covered wood. It was almost like the underside of a boardwalk, stinking like ocean and stained green from years of salt water exposure. Would it hurt to touch, Patton wondered? Would the wood break off into his hand, or would it come away slick, slimy?
He ducked his head with a huff; that kind of disgust was completely unfair to the creature he was trying to reach out to, and he knew it. He didn’t have the energy for this; Patton wrapped against the door thrice in quick succession despite the nagging of his instincts (it was slimy, and rough as well. His head ticked to the side at the disturbing texture). The knocks rang out, and then there was an abrupt stillness in the whole of the hallway, like all life had stopped at once. This was true for Patton, at least; he held his breath, balled his fists, and it seemed he was standing stiller than he ever had before. 
From the other side of the door, there was muttering. It was frantic, but not upset, and one voice alone. A lot of things happened very quickly after that:
First, the door slammed inwards, no one on the other side of it. Naturally Patton leaned to look inside, and as well as he had- ragged claws sank into his shoulders, a shrill noise rang in his ear, and he was spun around. Screaming, Patton toppled backwards and landed flat in the threshold to Remus’ room.
Speaking of Remus, the creature himself was looming over Patton, his skin rippling with bumps and ridges and colors like a continual shapeshift. He had his arms raised, his mouth opened hugely; it looked like a soundless laugh. 
But he glanced down at Patton, then- trembling, whimpering Patton- and his eyes widened in recognition. At once his skin smoothed over and returned to its usual color, his jaw snapping back into place. 
“Oh!” Remus reached down and hauled Patton back to his feet with a strained huff. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Logan’s the only one who seriously knocks for me, cuz he’s all polite and shit.”
Patton righted himself, trying very hard to stop shaking. After a deep breath, he said:
“Oh, haah, it’s okay!” He pulled his sleeves taut, with a smile to match. “I just wouldn’t want to interrupt you, if you were busy.”
Remus shrugged, cocking his hip. 
“Oh, I bet you wouldn’t,” a smirk then split his face, and he winked. “But you should know I don’t mind anybody walking in on me, Daddy.”
Patton nodded quick, having no idea what (if anything) he was agreeing to, when in reality he was Very Uncomfortable with All of those words. He tried for a laugh, but at the same moment a deeply horrifying growl decided to erupt from behind him. He realized that he did not want to have his back to Remus’ room for even another second. 
“Uh- could we-?” 
Remus caught his meaning, stepping deftly around Patton and into his doorway. It was almost a twirl when he switched their positions, aided by the fact that he always moved like water.
“Right!” He clapped his hands together, “What was it you wanted, Pops?”
Oh, yes. That. 
Patton didn’t meet the Duke’s eyes at all, the words lumped together on the tip of his tongue. Why did this feel so embarrassing?
“I was wondering if we could spend some time together?” 
Remus’ eyebrows went way up on his forehead, and his face split in a downright sultry grin that had Patton red-faced and abashed.
“Not like- I’m not- I meant, like, an activity-” Remus’ smile widened, “-No, um, something fun! Not that that wouldn’t- well, I just don’t like-” 
Remus erupted in laughter, throwing his head back not unlike a shrill bird.
“Oh, I’m just fucking with you. No, really, what’s up?” 
Patton frowned.
“I wanted to know if we could hang out. That’s what I was trying to say?”
Remus gave a derisive little sound, and his nose scrunched.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he propped his arm against the doorframe, his gaze boring into Patton. “You were being serious? I figured you needed me to help with, like, chores or something!” 
Before Patton could even respond, Remus snapped the door shut behind himself and dipped into the hallway. 
“So, what? You wanna bake cookies or some shit? That could be fun, but there will be fire and broken glass if I’m involved. Or- you like those zen coloring books, right? Although, the adult coloring books I use are much more emphasized on the adult, you know, and vulgar-”
Patton shook his head sharply, and- gathering some courage- placed his hand on Remus’ arm to halt him. 
“Um,” he said, “I was thinking that we could do something you like to do, actually.” 
Remus stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he’d been touched, looking at Patton like he’d sprouted another head. He tried out several different expressions, like he was trying to see what reaction they’d garner- first amusement, then happiness, then offense- but he finally settled on plain confusion. It looked the most genuine.
“Are you joking?” He asked, the question laced with a striking sincerity. Patton wasn’t sure if what he was feeling was dread or guilt, but either way he let go of the Duke’s wrist. 
“Of course I am!” He enthused- tried to enthuse. 
There was a beat. 
Remus, for once, looked uncomfortable; fidgeting his hands, arms, tapping his foot.
“Really?” 
“Really really!” And Patton really really hoped that this exchange could be over, so that he could get on with this- he meant!! Um! So that he could have a nice time with someone who had been nice to him. (Oh, what was wrong with him?)
Remus tipped his head to the side. He hummed.
“This is because of yesterday?” That hit the nail right on its head, yup. Patton winced. “I told you not to worry about all that. You don’t really want to do this, you know, and that’s obvious to both of us. My idea of fun isn’t nearly as conservative as yours, Pops.”
Patton felt a stab of offense at ‘conservative’. He dropped his smile.
“I- look, Remus,” a sigh, “You didn’t have to help me yesterday, but you did, and… I still don’t know why. And I don’t really know why I’m here right now, either, or what I’m doing with you. I barely know anything about you!” Patton shook his head, but an indignant conviction was filling up his chest. He met Remus’ eyes, steady. “But I do know that we never let you pick what to watch on movie night. I know we don’t always listen to what you suggest on really important projects, even though that’s your job. I know we- that I try so hard not to make things about you, even nowadays. That’s gotta get, um, disheartening, right?” Remus tilted his head, but Patton didn’t wait for an answer. “And that’s why I’m here. So whatever you like doing, you don’t have to do it alone- like how you didn’t leave me alone. And…” He knotted his hands together in front of him, shoulders low. “I can figure out the rest later.” 
He meant it. He was surprised by how much he meant it, having no idea where it had all come from. It didn’t erase his nerves, his discomfort, even his disgust, but he stood there and he honestly hoped that soon he wouldn’t have a reason to feel any of those things with the darker side of Creativity. He wanted to understand, if only he could know how. And maybe, that creature before him, smarter than he probably seemed, would show him how. 
Remus was silent for a long, long while. His face was blank, expressionless. He wasn’t grinning, and there was nothing glinting mischievously behind his eyes; his nose wasn’t bunched in a snarl, there was no show of huge and horrible fangs, and he wasn’t moving.
It was the most intimidating he’d ever been.
“You don’t have to do that,” and Remus’ voice was soft. It was almost unreal to hear it that way, his accent not fit for that kind of volume.
But Patton was emotions, and emotions knew at a glance what awe sounded like- what hope sounded like. It was shocking to hear them from Remus, but Patton knew the shock was good. He’d been right- right about initially being wrong, right that Remus had more to him than his outside. He was right, and now he needed to know more of him. 
 Patton smiled, sincerely, and for once he knew exactly what to say. 
“I know I don’t have to,” he admitted, “But I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”
Remus tilted his head one way, then the other, and back again. Slowly, he returned the smile, and it grew to look much more like his usual beam. He darted past Patton, swung his door open, and strode inside. 
“Watch your step,” he warned, “The floor isn’t entirely dead yet!”
Patton, amazing himself, hardly hesitated to follow.
Chapter Three
Taglist:  @glitter-skeleton-uwu @donnieluvsthings @intruxiety @thefivecalls @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @gayformlessblob
31 notes · View notes
seanhtaylor · 4 years ago
Text
Cherry Hill
“Ain't never been a day like it," the old man said, "and ain't never gonna be one."
He sat rocking in a rickety chair while a calm November wind whistled through the chimes that hung above his paint chipped steps. Nearly eighty six, his hair was grayed and thin, and his scalp showed through in frequent, scattered patches. He spoke clearly and thoughtfully, a trait common to the Southern elderly I'd interviewed.
"You sure you want to hear 'bout this? 'Cuz it might take a while. I still get really choked up when I think on it even though it happened sixty some odd years ago."
I nodded. "Take all the time you need, sir."
"Alright..." he said, and shifted in the rocker, bringing it to a stop. The quiet squeaking died, and all was silent save the whistle of the breeze through the wind chimes. "Suppose it's best. This old county's got its ghosts lying around, and this one's probably due for a resurrection."
* * * * * *
William Emmett Johnson was sheriff then...Will, all us deputies called him. He was a real card, not a lick like the old sheriff. Will always used to win the Liar's Club's gold cup every Saturday night. That man could tell the most outrageous, but just barely believable untruths out of the whole Liar's Club. Heck, even at the jailhouse, we weren't ever really sure when he was giving it to us straight or just pulling our legs.
And he had this old confederate shirt he used to wear all the time. He said his grandmother gave it to him, and that it was sent back to her from General Lee with a letter saying how his granddaddy had been killed by a Yankee Negro. I guess because of that, you could say old Will had his teeth sorta set on edge toward colored people. He wasn't mean outright to them, but he sure didn't take a liking to them either. Will, Joseph, and I were the only ones at the jail, usually, so it was just the three of us who were there when it all happened. July twenty third, nineteen hundred and twenty six, I marked that day on a calendar in my head, and I'll never forget it. Jimmie Baker from the drug store came running into the jailhouse, shouting like Gabriel's trumpet was blowing outside and the good Lord was coming back.
"They gonna string him, Will."
"Who they gonna string up, Jimmie?"
"That little Jenkins boy, the youngest one."
"Albert Jenkins..." Joseph always did his thinking out loud. "Why, he ain't never been in no kind of trouble before."
"Well, he's gone and done it now. Lee Dunsten says he's the one what raped his little girl, Winnie."
Will just stared like he always did when he was thinking. "They got any proof, witnesses or personal things found at the site?"
"I don't think so, Will, but I don't think the lack's gonna slow 'em down any."
Joseph and I had already got our gun belts on, and were getting ready to go arrest the Jenkins boy, when Will gave us the call to arms, "Well boys, negro or no, ain't nobody getting lynched in Cherry Hill without Will Johnson looking it over first."
So we all packed into the new car the town had just bought for us, and rode out to the Dunstens' farm.
That Lee Dunsten and his boys done had the Jenkins boy down and bleeding all over God's green earth. They had a rope 'round his neck, and were jerking him here and there like a wild dog on a first leash. Cussing and whipping out his arms and legs, the boy was fighting the rope for all he was worth, but he just wasn't a match for Lee Dunsten mounted on his horse holding the other end. He never could get more than two or three steps before the rope would yank him to the ground and drag him 'round the farm some more. The Dunstens were making darn sure the boy didn't have any fight in him for when they got ready to dangle him in the wind.
Sheriff Will just stepped out of the car, and walked right up to Lee Dunsten's horse. He jerked the reins right out of Lee's hands, and brought the animal to a stop.
"What's going on here, Lee?"
"Now sherf, this here ain't none of the law's business. This boy's the one raped Winnie, and I'm gonna see he pays for it. You boys can get back in your fancy automobile the good people done bought for you, and go back to the jailhouse. There ain't no kinda trouble here for you to pay a mind to."
"Rape's a right strong accusation, Lee. I sure hope you got some proof the boy's guilty."
"Proof! What in Hell! Will? Since when do you need proof to string up a nigger boy?"
"Since we lost the war, Lee." Will was a lawman through and through.
"Well, Sherf Johnson," Lee said to him, "I don't see that it's so all fired important, but if it'll get you off my farm, we found the boy in the back of the house, half in and half out of Winnie's window, just like he hadda do the other night to get to her."
"Now Lee, you know there ain't no love lost 'tween me and colored folks, but laws are laws, and I got to enforce them. If this boy's the one what did that vile sin against the Lord and your girl, he'll pay for it...but through the courts, not s winging from a rafter in your barn."
About then, one of Lee's boys spoke up, "Sheriff Will, I ain't no fancy lawyer or nothing, but laws or no laws, there ain't nobody gonna tell me that courts are for anybody but white folks."
Will just ignored the boy, and walked over to Albert Jenkins. He was scared, that boy, half to death, and shaking like he was freezing in the summer. I guess being on the wrong end of a hanging rope will do it to a fella. Blood was everywhere he wasn't nothing but a dark open sore by this time, a sixteen year old blood and puss sore. His clothes were torn into rags from being drug over the farm, and he might as well have been stark naked for all the covering they gave him.
"Boy."
"Yessir."
"Tell me the truth, boy. What was you doing coming out of Miss Winnie's window like you was?"
"I didn't do nothing to Miss Winnie, sir. She always been good to me, treatin' me nice and all.
"What was you doing coming out of the window, boy?
"I weren't coming out her window, sheriff. I was jes' pokin' my head in to smell the chocolates she's been getting."
Dunsten's oldest boy blurted out then, "You calling me a liar, boy? Sheriff, you ain't gonna take no word of a dark boy over me, are you?"
"Shut up, Lewis," his daddy told him, then back handed him hard across the jaw.
"Will, my boy said he found him coming out Winnie's window, and I believe that's what happened. My boy's word's all the proof I need."
"You ain't the court, Lee."
"You know what the court'll say, Will. There ain't never been a negro jury in this county yet, and ain't no white jury gonna listen to this malarky you've been giving me about laws."
"Maybe so, but you folks pay me to do a job, and by the good Lord, I'm gonna do it the best I can."
Joseph and I got Albert Jenkins, and put him in the car. Will told Dunsten and his boys to get back to the house and stop fooling with the "little nigra boy," and they went, but not without the last word.
"This ain't the end, Will," Dunsten yelled, as he let the screen door slam shut behind him.
You know how some folks just can't leave well enough alone. Well, Lee Dunsten was one of them folks. The whole time we had Albert locked up, Lee and his friends were out raising all kinds of cain 'round and 'round the courthouse and the jail. I still think to this day that old Will put the boy in jail as much to protect him from the Dunstens as for the accusation of rape.
Lee was a deacon down at the Baptist church, but you wouldn't have ever known it by the way he was cussing and carrying on outside. "It's a right fine day for a hanging, sherf," he'd shout 'bout every half hour or so.
Little scrawny Albert was still scared half to death sitting in the cell where we'd put him. So, I'd gone over to help the boy calm down while Will was outside trying to get rid of the Dunstens and their hundred or so friends that had gathered.
"Mr. Deputy, sir."
"Yeah."
"I ain't ready to be no merter yet."
"A merter?"
"Yessir...One of them folks that gets killed for doing nothin' wrong, just mindin' they own business, then right out of the blue somebody wants to kill them for one fool reason or another."
"There's a lot of good company with the martyrs, Albert, but don't you worry none...you ain't gonna die today."
"He's right, that Mr. Dunsten. Ain't no jury gonna believe me over a white boy."
All I could do was nod in agreement with him. Albert Jenkins' eyes were as brown as his skin, maybe browner, and big as baseballs, but when he looked at me full in the face, I saw how pretty they gleamed when they glazed over with the starting of a little tear.
"How come you and the sheriff trying to keep me from 'em, if I'm gonna die anyhow?"
"Boy," I said, "There ain't nobody on God's earth deserves to go out like them Dunstens want to send you."
By now 'bout half the town was outside shouting for the boy to hang. Lee Dunsten had almost started himself an all out riot. Will came back in sometime 'round then wearing a big look of misery.
"Joseph...Get the boy."
"Excuse me, sheriff?"
"Get the boy."
"But they gonna kill him, and he ain't even gone to trial yet."
"I ain't got no time for this, Joseph. Get the boy, now!" Will looked like a man whose whole family had just passed on all at once.
Joseph got up and fetched Albert from the cell, and brought him right up to where Will was.
"Albert, I got something to say to you, and I want you to be a man about it."
"Yessir."
"I don't know if you was the one what raped the girl or no, but out there they say you did. They want you to hang."
"Yessir, I know."
"I tried my best, good Lord have mercy, to keep you safe 'til you could get a trial and a chance."
"Yessir."
"But Heaven above, boy, they just threatened to burn down my jailhouse to get you, even if it means they have to kill me and all my deputies."
Albert didn't say "yessir" then. No, he didn't say nothing. All he did was to spit right in Will Johnson's face. I wanted to spit in Will's face, too.
We tried to talk him out of it, Joseph and I, but in the end, he had his mind all made up. He told us not to get in the way none, else the town would fire us both as deputies.
I ain't never felt so small in all my life, as I did looking on as Albert Jenkins stood there all by himself, 'bout to be strung up an untried man. He didn't cry, but he sure cussed and hollered and kicked and punched and bit when the two oldest Dunsten boys, Lewis and Vincent, came in to fetch him out. They fought with him a good five minutes or so before they could wrestle him to the ground for a chance to tie up his hands and feet. For a scrawny sixteen year old kid, that boy could throw his fist like a trained fighter, and none of us interfered while Lewis and Vincent got a few bruises to carry out with them. But Albert knew he couldn't fight them all day long, and even if he did, there were more than a hundred others waiting outside to come in all at once, so he quit. He just gave up licking them Dunsten boys, and lay there on the floor gawking for breath. Lewis Dunsten came up then and kicked him hard in the stomach. Albert Jenkins coughed and spit blood, then fainted dead away.
The crowd had their fun with the boy, slapping and kicking at him, and taunting with no end of horrible names. I guess they just wanted to make sure he was good and awake before they killed him.
"Devil boy," somebody yelled out, "Black as soot from the Hell pits."
"Ain't never known nothing but stealin' and hurtin' good people."
"Primitive heathens."
Lee Dunsten just took up on that, and sounded like he was making church out of it. "We know, all of us here, that this little Negro had every opportunity to do right." He took care to drag the word Negro out real clear and loud. "He knows what the rules have always been: Don't no black folks associate with no white folks. He was born knowing it, even if we never hadda told 'em. It's inborn, the natural order." People were whooping and hollering like they were at a tent meeting, all stirred up by what Lee was saying. "But now this boy done stepped way over the dividing line. He's gone and done the unthinkable. No self respecting nigger with a brain in his head would force his affection on a tender, young white girl. But let me tell you...this ain't no self respecting boy."
You could have heard that crowd three towns away. Lee's accusation was all the proof they needed that the boy was Winnie's attacker, and they got thirsty for blood. It made you wonder who was really primitive, hearing a whole town yelling out a death chant like they were.
Next thing I knew, they had Albert standing under the oak tree across from the courthouse, and Lewis Dunsten was slipping the rope 'round his neck one more time. It was happening too far away to know for sure, but I swear that the Dunsten boy was grinning from ear to ear as he tightened the rope.
Then, "Crack!" The explosion of gunpowder stood everybody as still as if death had frozen all of them right where they were standing. Sheriff William Emmett Johnson was standing on the front steps of the courthouse with his rifle pointing up at the clouds.
"This ain't court," he shouted to the crowd, "and you ain't the jury what's gonna decide whether or not the boy hangs."
That yelling and screaming lynch mob got quiet right quick, waiting on Lee Dunsten's reaction.
"Sherf, me and all the good folks here aim to see this boy hang, and ain't you or nobody gonna stop us."
"I can't let that happen, Lee."
"Since when have you gone out of your way to protect a..."
Will cut him off with another rifle blast. "Since I believed in the boy's innocence."
"You ain't callin' my boy a liar, are ya, Will?"
"Nope. Just saying he misunderstood the situation as he saw it. It just ain't evidence enough for a hanging."
"We think it is, sherf."
"I'm right sorry to hear that, but I don't reckon it matters much since the police from Pineville are waiting on him to show up at their big, new jailhouse. I just called them, and they said they had plenty of room to hold him 'til his trial."
Lee turned every shade of red in the book, and stormed right up to Will on the front steps. "Will, the boy ain't gonna make it to Pineville..."
"That's obstructing justice, Lee, and that's against the law."
"Fine." He turned and yelled out to Lewis, "Go ahead, boy. This fine lawman of ours wouldn't shoot no white man for giving out justice to a Negro."
Lewis once again tightened the rope, and got ready to dangle Albert. A bullet whizzed by about two feet above his head, and he flinched, but only for a moment.
"You almost scared me, sheriff. I almost thought you were really gunning for me."
He put on a smirk, stepped off of the box, and raised his foot to send Albert swinging out into the air, when the rifle thundered one last time, and Lewis Dunsten fell to the ground like a dove over a hunter's field.
About half the mob screamed while the other half ran off in all different directions. Lee Dunsten didn't do nothing but drop to his knees crying like a newborn. In the confusion, Will picked up the shaken Lee Dunsten, and took him into the jailhouse for being a public nuisance.
Joseph and I made over to where Albert was still standing on the box, terrified. We took the rope off from his neck, and cut it down from the tree as a safeguard. Albert was bleeding pretty bad from the licking he'd taken, and his wrists were cut deep and rubbed raw down to the muscle from the coarse rope. After we cut his wrists loose, and he tried to bring his arms 'round front again, there was a loud scraping noise like bone rubbing bone. The boy was a sore mess with his body covered in blood and bruises and his right arm broken, but he was still breathing, and he wasn't swinging from an oak tree in front of the Cherry Hill Court House.
That, at least, was something.
We carried the poor kid over to the new police car, and then Will Johnson did something I'll never forget. He took off his granddaddy's old confederate shirt, and standing there before God and everybody all bare chested and sweaty, he tore it into three long strips to make a sling for Albert Jenkins' broken right arm. As soon as we'd put him in the car, it wasn't forty seconds before the boy fell straight off to sleep, right peaceful even, all things considered.
Will told us to get in the car, and drive him up to Charleston.
"Charleston, sheriff?"
"Yeah, Charleston. Even if a jury was to find him innocent, folks 'round here wouldn't care a bit. He'd still be in as much danger of hanging as he was before the trial. But in Charleston, he can live...land a job on a ship...sail off a few years. Nobody ever recognizes a man after the sea gets a hold of him. Heck! He don't even have to come back. No, he can make a whole new life. Anything's better than what he'll have waiting here."
"Sheriff, what about them folks up at Pineville? Ain't they gonna be sorely put out when he don't show up?"
"Naw," Will drawled, and started laughing himself sick to tears. "I lied." And he kept on laughing 'til long after we'd headed on up to Charleston.
* * * * * *
"We got Albert a job two days later, broken right arm and all. We waved good bye from the dock as he sailed off to be a cook's assistant aboard Elizabeth's Dream. It was a right odd name for a boat, so we just called it Jenkin's Dream, because of the chance it meant for Albert `cept he wasn't Albert Jenkins no more. Start over, we told him, fresh and clean. And he did. Grover Calvert Williams was the signature he left on the ship's work list.
"He even wrote once or twice, and said he'd married a little French girl, and that they'd moved back to the States...somewhere up North with lots of land and room for a family.
"You know, the Dunstens moved on right after the sheriff let Lee out of Jail. Rumor said they'd moved up to Pineville for a few weeks, then just moved on from there to nobody knows where. Old Will Johnson never got a gold cup for that one, but he sure should've."
I chuckled, and began packing my recorder and notebook away, all the while fighting November's breath as it sought to close the flap of my pack. "Thanks for your time and the story."
"Anytime, anytime at all."
He turned and entered the big screen door going from his porch to the inside of the small house, and I headed for my VW. But before either of us made it to our destinations, he stopped, the door half open, and looked over toward me again.
"Say...Nobody much cares for the old stories anymore. How come you're so interested?"
"Research for my doctorate...race relations in the rural South," I partially lied, and traced the G, C, and W of my grandfather's pocketwatch inside my windbreaker's front pocket.
© Sean Taylor
6 notes · View notes
squidproquoclarice · 4 years ago
Text
Yeehawgust Day 26: Saguaro
November 1895: Ocho Millas, Arizona Territory
She swept the battered chips back neatly to her across the green canvas tacked to the top of the gaming table, and watched as one busted out, broke cowboy pushed his chair back with a sigh.  “That you done, mister?” she asked.
“You and the bartender got all my money, Miss Karen,” he replied.  “But can’t say losing to a pretty gal ain’t a pleasure.”
She supposed it was better when they lost amiably, given it got ugly when they didn’t.  There was something desperately lonely to too many of these men she understood far too well. They might not see her beyond ample breasts and blond curls, beyond the company they could buy at the gambling table or upstairs, but there was something sad and sweet about all of it sometimes.  The parts that weren’t burned away easily enough with some tequila or whiskey, given they were fifty miles from the border and both Anglos and Mexicans passed through often enough, so Hank felt it smart to stock both at the bar.  “Well, you come on back next payday then, Lem.” 
Nobody wanted to play just now, so she kept an ear on the conversations around the cantina. Ended up listening to two Mexicanos at the next table talking about a potential silver mine, voices low and talking in Spanish.  Sounded like the talk of two men with big dreams who’d end up bleached bones out in the desert, nothing serious. She could understand Spanish decently enough after five years out here in the territory, though she tended to keep that fact to herself.  A woman needed some hidden advantages sometimes. 
Seeing another two men walk in, she called to them, “You fellas feeling a game of cards?”  A young Mexican, and a middle-aged white man, the last of what had once been silvery-blond hair fading to genuine silver.  They headed over, and took the two empty seats.  “Welcome to the Caballo Muerto, gents.”
The younger man’s lips twitched up in a smile.  “Dead Horse, huh?”  They both dressed flashily enough.  They’d have money, she judged.  Given Hank was fair enough in the cut he let her keep of the house winnings, it could be a good night.
“It’s memorable, ain’t it?”  She leaned in, and gave them her most winning, flirtatious smile.  “But it does mean at this gaming table, there’s a point in beating a Dead Horse.” 
The older one laughed at that, reaching into his vest pocket.  “Clever, I’ll give you that.”  He laid his money down on the table.  “Javier?” The younger man, Javier, followed suit.  Sweeping the money into her pocket for safekeeping, she pushed the appropriate amount of chips across the table to them.
“So, what brings you two fellas out to Ocho Millas?  Cattlemen, to judge from the look of you?”  Dressed that nicely, they had to be speculators or dealers of some kind.  She was familiar with every dusty, battered variety of cowboy, vaquero, miner, and small-time rancher to come through border territory, and usually end up leaving in a hell of a hurry.
“What eight miles?” Javier asked.  “The town name, I mean.”
She shrugged, reaching for the deck of cards.  “Beats me.  Eight miles from anywhere, that’s my guess.  Eight miles of sand, saguaro, sagebrush, and shattered dreams.  This ain’t a destination, fellas, it’s a place you pass through and leave.”  Except for the few like her who stayed.  Not because she loved this place, but she had nowhere to go, after all.  Nothing to dream about.  That seemed sad as hell.  She was twenty-one, the winning number in blackjack, and she felt like she’d busted out already when it came to life.  If she knew where the Jasper gang was roaming these days, perhaps she could run with them again, but her ma had left for a reason.
“Keeps the gambling traffic constant enough, I suppose,” the older one said.
“It does.”  Something prodded within her, a sense of recognition at the look in his eyes.  That shrewd assessment of things, looking for chances, and not simply at a game of cards.  Everyone knew a saloon was where the secrets were.  She’d learned that as a kid.  She decided it was worth her while to put it right out there.  If she was correct, this could get interesting.  If she wasn’t, she’d still get the entertainment of watching their consternation. “So, you two wouldn’t be the sorts looking to fleece the pants off a bastard of a cattle baron, would you?  There’s plenty of folk that would thank you for it.”
Javier almost choked on his drink, then started laughing, but softly so that nobody would turn to stare.  “Hosea, you did say we’d have an interesting evening here.”
Hosea, the older man, looked at her, and now there was something in his gaze, something sharper and more knowing.  “Run with some outlaws before, have you?”
She smiled at him.  “Win a hand and maybe I tell you.  Win the game, maybe I give you the inside information on that fella who needs swindling.”  She leaned in, lowering her voice.  “I beat you both, you get me out of here, and I ride with you to get the hell out of this town.”  She’d learned to judge men well enough in her years.  These might be dangerous men, but not to her.
Hosea looked at her, shaking his head with amusement.  “Here’s a deal for you, my dear.  No game needed.  You leave with us tonight after this place closes down.  We take you to our camp, you meet the rest of us.  You like what you see, then you tell us what you know, and we all do well swindling this cattle baron.”  He tapped the table with his fingertips, calling for cards, a sudden sparkle in his brown eyes.  “But since we’re here, let’s play anyhow.”  
She chuckled, liking him already, and began dealing the cards with a practiced flick of her wrist.  “All right, old man, you got yourself a deal.”
14 notes · View notes
alstanfordart · 5 years ago
Photo
Tumblr media
No One Really Dies In Derry
From The Bradley Gang chapter of Tales From Neibolt
The lightning pulses across the gray October sky as Arthur, decked out in his spectacles he seldom wore, leans under the hood of the broken down LaSalle. George and Al stand beside him, restless eyes switching between the car's innards and the moonless cloudy night sky, with the storm just beginning to gather momentum. George has a small flashlight raised just above Arthur's head, highlighting the smoking engine.
George's wife Kitty remains inside the vehicle, fingering her compact mirror, trying in vain to powder her nose in the less than adequate lighting.
Parked just behind the LaSalle was a Chevrolet, with Joe's arm hanging out the driver window, cigar smoke clouding from his thin lips, elbow rested along the door. His brother Cal sat in the passenger seat, leaning on his hand, looking thoroughly bored with the situation. In the backseat are Marie and Patrick, with Marie leaning against his thick brown coat.
"Think we can get it going again?" George queries as he nervously casts his gaze around them, his timorous visage briefly made visible in the crack of light that splits across the sky. Marie nuzzles closer to Patrick, tucking her head down as thunder rolls above them. Patrick pulls her closer, stroking her brown curls.
"The engine's blown..." Al offers, ducking down to inspect closer.
"Aye. Seen better days, I'm sure," Arthur slams the hood down and wipes his hands with a stained white handkerchief from his pants pocket. "This ain't goin' nowhere, lads."
"Shit," George straightens as he switches off the flashlight. "What we gonna do?"
"Dunno." comes Al's simple reply.
They were safe, far away from the Lafayette city limits. After dumping the body of the banker they'd kidnapped in a swamp after collecting the thirty thousand in ransom money, they were on Route 2 in direction to a town called Derry after a brief stop in Augusta. Arthur, however, had his sights set on Bangor. When the LaSalle broke down just short of them reaching the Derry welcome sign along the shadows of the trees on the outskirts of the town.
A hush falls over the group as Al saunters out onto the middle of the road, sniffling and kicking a pebble aside. That's when he sees, in the far off distance, a pair of headlights appearing almost out of nowhere. He rushes to the driver's side of the LaSalle and reaches for his Colt .38 revolver-small and discreet, so as to be presented at the first sign of trouble.
He stands and waits as George tosses the flashlight in through the back window of the LaSalle and stands alongside Al, arms folded, not nearly as alert as his big brother.
Inside the Chevrolet, Patrick rests his hand on his Luger laying on the seat beside Marie that he'd stolen off the body of a Lafayette officer.
Meanwhile, Joe and Cal also ready their weapons, with Joe craning his neck out the window to view the car drawing closer.
Arthur casually strolls to the passenger side, eyeing his own much larger Remington 22. Al preferred a sneak up and get them approach. Arthur preferred things more direct. If whoever this was coming up the road was going to give them trouble, they would be dealt with accordingly before they even knew what hit them.
The car, a Ford Roadster, quietly comes closer, eerily serene, the headlights taking on a more orange tint as it draws near. It comes to a stop alongside the Chevrolet, the silhouette of a driver, a man with hat, is barely visible.
As he shuts the engine off, he sits a moment, George tightens his grip on his revolver as Arthur keeps watch on his Remington. Then the man leans over to the passenger side, rolling down the window.
"You needing some help there?" a gravelly voice drifts out of the Ford, a hint of a lisp making the 's' sound more like 'shum.' Al snatches up the flashlight and strolls over, shining it in the man's face and is a little taken aback by what he sees.
Scars. Thin pale scars, ever so faint, threading up the man's creamy cheeks, beginning at the corners of his mouth and ending just under the rim of his Homburg hat.
"You needing some help?" the scarred man repeats. "I've fixed a car or two here and there. I could take a look-see."
"Yeah, yeah...sure." Al replies, studying the man's features, with his square jaw and intense round eyes.
This guy looks like he knows where some bodies are buried.
Al tenses as the driver side door pops open and the man emerges, revealing an incredibly tall frame in a sleek gray suit. Certainly taller than all of the men in their group.
In fact, he was a good foot taller than Al.
No matter. If this fellow pulled any funny business, they outnumbered him.
"Here," the man saunters over to the LaSalle, popping open the hood. He reaches his long arms in and begins tampering with the wires. Not long after there's a loud 'pop' sound and the engine roars back to life, taking a few minutes to struggle before running smoothly. Arthur gives a pleased nod of his head.
"Thanks mate!" He gives the man an enthusiastic pat on the back as Al looks relieved, exchanging glances with George.
"What's your name , my good sir?" George inquires.
"Robert. Robert Gray. Although folks 'round here call me Bob."
The man shuts the hood and returns to his car, before he removes his hat to give his scalp a quick scratch, revealing a shock of auburn.
"You folks needing a place to stay for the night? Something tells me you'd rather not be in a motel. Gotta place just a mile up the road. Nice and cozy," he gazes at Kitty and Marie. "The ladies can clean up. Sit by the fire, get warm. Maybe a hot meal."
Arthur looks at both George and Al, who in turn glance to Joe and Cal, with Patrick keeping his eyes on the strange man, sizing him up.
Something not right with that fella.
"I'm pretty knackered," Arthur whispers as he tilts closer to Al and George. "And if this chap thinks he's gonna pull something, we'll handle it. At any rate, we'd have a place to lay low. If he oversteps, we'll teach him a lesson."
"Looks like somebody already did." Al retorts before turning on his heel to face the man. "Alright. One night. We'll be outta your hair come morning."
"Great!" the man replies, grinning as he retreats back inside the Roadster. Patrick is watching the man from behind the foggy glass of the backseat window, brows knotting together as the man begins to drive ahead. Arthur, Al and George retreat back into the LaSalle and follow, with the Chevrolet right behind.
Patrick taps Joe on the shoulder. He grunts in response. "What's it now, Caudy?"
"That guy, he don't look right to me. Got a feelin' in my gut," Patrick says, keeping his dark eyes fixed ahead on the Roadster. "He's bad news, I can feel it."
"And if you're right, we'll put a bullet in his melon. No big deal. Guy seems kinda dopey to me anyhow," Joe says breezily as he chucks his cigar out the window. "Not really a threat. Doubt he's ever fired a gun in his life."
Patrick is not convinced. "You saw his face. He looks like a blind man tried to take a whack at him," he glances at Marie. "And I don't like how he was lookin' at her."
Joe chortles softly to himself. Doubt she'd mind it.
At this, point, both he and Cal had secret trysts with her behind Patrick's back. He suspected she'd also been fooling around with Arthur too. An assumption born out of her comment about his "sexy" Irish accent.
Funny, Patrick was suspicious of total strangers, but not the men he'd grown to call friends.
Maybe it's because he'd never had any before. His paranoia was off-putting but also what made him so kill crazy. Handsome to look at, but underneath was a volcano. Always ready to erupt at the slightest provocation.
Not tonight. Joe would see to that.
"Don't go pulling any of that shit. We don't wanna be drawing attention to ourselves here. Not in this hick place. You know these small towns. Everyone knows everyone. Just keep quiet. We don't need a repeat of Toledo."
Patrick had gone ballistic on a gas attendant he'd thought muttered some smart-ass comment under his breath. They'd sped out of there after Patrick splattered the man's brains along the smooth concrete with a single clean bullet to the temple.
Patrick sits back, roughly pulling Marie to him as Joe glances at the street sign; 29 Neibolt.
The Roadster parks in front of a large Victorian house. With the LaSalle and Chevrolet lining up right behind.
"Whoa," Cal mumbles as he peers around his brother to glimpse the place. "Seems this fella might have some serious dough."
"Looks like a dump to me." Joe replies, shutting off the engine and swinging open the door. He was not a man who was easily impressed and he'd robbed much more grander mansions than this in Danville.
"Kinda gammy looking." Arthur mutters to himself as he slides out the LaSalle.
Patrick steps out, followed by Marie, who looks dazzled, her hazel eyes wide and her ruby red lips breaking out in a smile. It was the style of house that had always struck her fancy.
"This place is gorgeous. Just look at that architecture! It's a palace!" she exclaims as she rushes ahead, making her way to the front porch, past sunflowers sprouting from the grassy front yard. Robert reaches down and plucks one, handing it to Marie.
"Sunflowers symbolize healing and good luck." he elucidates as she tucks it behind her ear. Patrick stands glaring as Joe touches his shoulder.
"Don't. It's harmless." he growls.
"Thank you. That's really very sweet, sir." Marie touches the flower.
"Sweets to the sweet, I say." Robert replies.
Patrick shakes Joe's hand off before he stalks towards the porch as everyone begins to pile into the home. As elegant inside as out, with a lovely red Victorian chaise lounge, matching camelback sofa and parlor chairs, each one sitting across from each other in front of the fireplace. The mantel boldly read 'Good Cheer, Good Friends.'
George smiles and playfully swats Robert's arm. "We're good friends now, eh, Bob?"
And friends help each other.
Too bad we don't have the means to clean this place out. The furniture would make a buck or two.
Robert merely smirks. A slow, deliberate smile as he looks at George. "Sure thing there. Why don't you all have a seat. I'll be right back."
"That's what my ex-wife said." Arthur quips as he collapses on a parlor chair, sprawling his legs out. It takes him a moment to notice; there's a fire now crackling inside. He stares at it, puzzlement blinking across his mien.
Huh, when did he do that? It wasn't going when we arrived and he didn't go near it...
No matter. Just enjoy it.
Kitty approaches the mantel, running her long shiny nails along little figurines of clowns, each made of delicate painted porcelain, juggling, balancing and one holding a bundle of red balloons.
"These are beautiful figurines." she says, tucking a tendril of sandy blonde behind her ear, bringing her blue irises closer to examine the fine details.
"Take one. Just throw it in your purse. Might as well." George blurts out. Kitty whirls around.
"We're his guests. He was kind enough to let us in here-"
"Come now, lass. Let's not pretend this bloke is an average citizen. You saw his face." Arthur offers, stretching his arms and folding his hands behind his skull, giving her an amused expression. "Looks to me like he may have been in a wee bit of trouble. He was probably acting the maggot and someone decided enough was enough. Could be a right eejit."
"Yeah," Al cradles his chin in his left fingers, massaging the dark stubble. "There's something...I gotta feeling he wouldn't rat us off. There's no way he wouldn't of recognized me, at least."
He's hiding something himself. Al could always sense them. His fellow ' bad seeds.' The people who ran in the gutters. The lowlifes. He could always pick them out.
The wanted posters were scattered across the midwest, plastered along buildings, hanging in post offices and police stations baring Al's face; wanted for bank robbery kidnapping and murder, with a reward of five-thousand dollars offered. He'd taken up with his old childhood friends the Conklin brothers Joe and Cal, who were small time, with but a few petty theft arrests between them. Patrick had killed a cop in Lafayette during their last raid and prior to that had just a few arrests for assault. He was a friend of Joe and Cal from their early gang days and they'd reconnected with him when Joe briefly did time for robbery, knocking off a small liquor store in Bloomington. He and Patrick had shared a cell.
As for Arthur Malloy, also known as 'Creeping Jesus' because he was nearsighted, he'd fled Ireland after killing a man he claimed insulted his dead sister who'd just passed away from tuberculosis. ("Kicked 'em square in the plums, then put a bullet in his brains, I did.")They'd met when Arthur was attempting to knock off the same liquor store as them and offered his LaSalle that he'd stolen as a getaway.
Patrick's girlfriend Marie Hauser had inadvertently joined the gang, initially trying to persuade him to leave, but soon became an active member. But her role was mostly cooking and washing linens, hence her much-despised nickname, "The washerwoman."
George's wife Kitty Donahue was another matter. She entered the gang enthusiastically and without hesitation, but Al has never so much as seen a gun in her hands. Not one for shooting, she'd say.
Patrick sits on the camelback, with Marie beside him, still happily fingering the sunflower. He glances up as Robert emerges, hat and coat discarded and hair combed back. He points towards the kitchen.
"This way," he says, gliding down the stairs. "Let's eat. Got some stew heating on the stove. Some wine on the table."
Arthur pauses as they all stand, the edges of his brows coming together in rumination.
When did he get that going?
Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he continues on with the others, with Kitty quickly swiping one of the figurines from the mantel and tucking it into her purse. The one with the balloons.
They all settle around the large rectangular mahogany-carved table with Robert dumping a hefty spoonful of a rather unappetizing red slop into each bowl. Patrick suddenly rises.
"Where's your bathroom?" he queries curtly.
Robert points. "Third door on the right."
Patrick darkly glances at Marie, then Robert before exiting. The murmuring of the group's voices fade as he stomps up the stairs, making his displeasure with the situation known. Of course, his real intention was to inspect this place. Make sure no one was hiding anywhere. He makes his way along the house's arteries, looking in various rooms, until he hears a door loudly creak. This makes him halt, glancing over his shoulder
The door to a room across from him is ajar, the lights inside faint, but enough to showcase what's inside.
Clown dolls.
Patrick charily begins to edge towards it, his boots stepping lightly as he sneaks up. He knew that man was strange. Something off about him. This could be an ambush. Nobody is this gracious. Not in his life experience. Everyone is always wanting something from you.
"Ah-ha!" he shouts, throwing open the door all the way and leaping in. He stands a moment, surveying the area with the clown dolls of all shapes and sizes along the wooden floor. Framed along the walls; more clowns of the sad crying variety.
"Jesus..." Patrick strolls over to the windows-also baring clowns-the circus-themed stained glass were partly obscured by thin brown cloths layered thick with dust.
Heh,heh.
Patrick spins around.
Who was that?
He reaches inside his coat and grips his Luger. "Hey, who's there?"
It had sounded like a man's voice inside the room with him, but before he could comprehend where a possible attacker could be hiding in here, he sees that the heads of the creepy dolls are now all turned towards him. Watching.
Whoosh.
The cloths covering the windows plunge to the floor and Patrick flinches as he turns to face the sound.
Hee!
Patrick does another turn around to face the clowns. That one sounded like a child. Specifically a girl coming from somewhere within the clutter of the room.
In that moment, Patrick feels something he hadn't felt in ages, since he was a boy running from his father's belt; fear. A powerful, overwhelming sense that he needed to leave this room now. The instinct to protect himself had kicked in.
He dashes towards the door, coming to a skidding stop before it slams shut. His breathing heavy, his heart hammering against the cavity of his chest.
Back in the kitchen, Patrick storms in, returning to his seat, sweat pearled along his large forehead. Marie touches his trembling hand.
"You alright?"
"Yeah, fine," he breathes, wild pupils directly on Robert. "Got a thing for clowns there, Bob?"
Robert slowly chews, staring back, before loudly swallowing. "Yes, sir. You could say that...I see you found my collection. "
"And it's a lovely one. I saw your figurines." Kitty interjects.
"Pretty fuckin' weird to me. A grown man..." Patrick grumbles. "What you hidin' in here?"
Robert sniffles, nibbling on his food. "Nothing, I assure you, Mr. Caudy-"
"Oh bullshit! What are you hidin'! What's in that room you freak!?" Patrick shouts as he stands, with Marie trying to subdue him and Joe mouthing curse words, when Kitty shrieking at the top of her lungs shatters the tension.
All eyes are drawn to her as she stares gaping at her spoon. "It's a finger!" she screams, holding it out for George to take a look. Upon inspecting it, he chuckles.
"It's a carrot honey." he pushes the vegetable slathered in red sauce around on the spoon.
"I swear, for a moment it looked just like a finger! A child's finger." Kitty pants, her palm clasped to her chest.
Patrick sinks back down to his chair, not taking his eyes off Robert, who chuckles.
"No fingers. Just an old family recipe, you could say."
"And what of your family Mr. Gray? Do you have a wife? Kids?" Marie chirps, trying to calmly rub Patrick's forearm. Robert considers a moment.
"No wife. No kids."
"Had to think about it huh?" Patrick cuts in. Joe gives him a swift kick to the shin under the table. Patrick glowers.
Unfazed, Robert continues, "I live alone. Just myself. Seems I've been alone for an eternity." he chortles that last line, as he sips his wine.
"I'd die from the loneliness." Marie replies.
"Nah, no one really dies in Derry." Robert says, to which an awkward silence falls over the table.
After a few beats of quiet. "So, uh, swinging bachelor huh?" George grins. "I kind of envy you..."
At this, Kitty scowls, gently, playfully swatting his arm. Al then stands, pushing his chair out. "Well, we best be getting to bed. We got an early start tomorrow." he announces.
Robert shows them to their rooms, pulling blankets from the closets for makeshift beds on the floors of the bedrooms to accommodate all of them, with Arthur opting to sleep downstairs on the camelback. Patrick keeps Marie locked in his sights as Robert bids them goodnight, shutting off the lights.
The house falls dark, with no sound, not even the thunder could be heard. Just deathly cold silence. As each member of the Bradley gang dozes off.
Patrick, having fallen asleep with troubled thoughts, realizing the man knew his surname when he'd not offered it, is soon awakened by a pair of hands on him. Small hands, shaking him violently.
"The Hell?" he mutters, wiping the sleepiness from his eyes as he looks up. Nothing there. He sits up, glancing at a slumbering Marie as he is pulled, almost hypnotically, to that odd clown room again. Almost as if waiting for him, the door swings open. Hearing the beckoning of a little girl's voice, not very audible before, but crystal clear now.
"Molly..." he whispers as he sees a miniature coffin now on display between the stained glass windows, the clown dolls forming a pathway as he approaches.. The door quietly shuts behind him as the coffin lid creaks open. He glances down at his hands, seeing he is now smaller, childlike, around twelve. The age he was when Molly drowned.
In her coffin, her eyes are closed, her face sweet. Her skin a pale blue and her brown ringlets held by pink ribbons. Sniffling, Patrick leans in to kiss her cheek. "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you." he whimpers through stinging tears. As he hangs his head, Molly's eyes burst open and she draws in a sharp breath.
"Ah!" Patrick stumbles backwards as Molly bolts upwards scowling, mouth sneering in contempt.
"Sorry for what? Hitting me in the head with that rock and accidentally knocking me into the river or running off like a coward? You didn't even try to save me, you fucking wimp."
She steps out of the coffin and leaps to the ground as Patrick watches her features distort, growing more white, her lips redder. She spreads her arms out, grinning maniacally, her angelic voice now raspy and insidious.
"Beautiful fear." she grins as she runs at him, roaring as she displays quill-like teeth, growing taller, her brown locks turning orange, her frilly pink dress becoming a gray-white. The clown dolls hiss with laughter as Patrick is backed against the door, which suddenly opens and Marie is there, screaming as the Molly creature, now a lanky tall clown with a striped face, comes at them. Patrick, now an adult man again, staggers up, terror gripping every inch of his being as he slams the door, yanking Molly away.
In the next room, George, Al and Kitty are awakened by the screams, as Kitty flips on the bedside lamp, standing just before them is the banker, covered in blackened mud and slime, his jaw dangling as he reaches his dislocated right limb out towards them. A deep otherworldly moan emitting from his misshapen mouth.
"Oh my God! Oh my God!" Kitty screams hysterically as George and Al reach for their guns, finding they are unable to fire.
"What the Hell! My gun is jammed up!" Al yells as they scramble for the door. Thankfully the banker zombie was nowhere near their escape route and they dash out, meeting Marie and Patrick, both holding each other. The lights above them flicker off and on, with a hideous high-pitched giggle echoing through the walls as Joe and Cal burst from their room, both looking pale.
As if they'd seen a ghost.
"That gas station worker Patrick iced? He's in our fucking room! Looking like he crawled straight outta his grave!" Cal yells.
Just then, they hear Arthur shouting. They all make their way downstairs, where Arthur is in the kitchen, his scrawny frame cowering against the wall, yelling as he points at a large boiling pot on the stove.
"I woke up and heard someone in the kitchen then I-I saw..." he stutters as he points a shaky finger at the pot. George steps over and gags at what he sees.
A head. Too disintegrated to tell the gender or age, boiling in blood. The sight and smell of rotting flesh sends George gagging and choking as he falls backwards, covering his mouth.
"Jesus fuck!"
"What is it?" Kitty demands.
"Never mind." George coughs.
Huddled together, they run towards the front door, The lights still flashing, the ugly laugh still reverberating. They all jump into their cars and by the grace of God, the LaSalle starts, engine blaring as they speed away. Some only barely clothed, with Marie wrapped in Patrick's coat that she often slept in to keep warm.
As dawn bleeds through the sky and the gang take refuge in a nearby farmhouse, the extra clothes and guns in the trunks of the cars coming in handy, The women take a calming trip to Freese's with Patrick in tow while the rest of the men went to Machen's Sporting Goods to order some more supplies. Lal, the owner, recognized Al immediately, despite the fake name he'd given; Richard D. Rader, and informed some of his buddies that he was expecting Al Bradley at two in the afternoon the day after tomorrow and just as the LaSalle and Chevrolet came into view on Main Street, the gang of Derry residents, armed to the teeth, opened fire.
As the shoot-out ensues, Biff Marlow, one of the gunmen, spies a scar-faced man in a gray suit with a sunflower tucked in the left breast pocket firing a Remington along with them. In fact, all the gunmen had spotted this complete stranger. They all figured he was an outsider wanting to join the party. Afterwards, as the bodies of the notorious Bradley Gang were on display in the bullet-ridden Chevrolet and LaSalle, Marlow watches as the man strolls away, whistling, one hand cradling the Remington on his shoulder, the other in his pocket.
Marlow could never be certain, and it bothered him for years after. Something he related to his drinking buddies while reminiscing about the killings. He could have sworn that, despite the bright sunlight, the stranger didn't cast any shadow.
No shadow at all.
43 notes · View notes
newsies-geek · 5 years ago
Text
Newsies In Quarantine: Part 4
Idea by @dragonsrrad
***
Davey took a moment to breath in the fresh air. It was nice- it was really nice.
Despite having come up here every night for the past week with Jack, every time he breathed in the brilliant smell of fresh air, he was taken aback, "How did you know how to get up here?"
Jack shrugged as he walked past Davey, leaning against the wall of the roof that faced the street, "Medda showed me where all the best hidin' spots was after the rally. She's was worried I wouldn't know my way out- well, I know my way out, just couldn't get to here and there then."
"I wish that hadn't happened." Davey moved forward to lean on the wall beside Jack, elbows inches apart.
"Me too." The dirty blonde frowned before glancing at Davey, "You know- I never planned on...on you findin' out about my parents- or my name-"
Davey snorted.
"What?" Jack squinted in confusion at the reaction.
"Sullivan." Davey cocked a bemused eyebrow as he cracked a grin at Jack.
Jack's cheeks turned scarlet as he hit Davey's shoulder with the back of his hand, good-naturedly, "Oh come on, Dave! At least I's wasn't named after a carni."
Davey rolled his eyes with a soft chuckle that made Jack's heart melt, "Okay, fair enough. And...it's fine, that was months ago." The brunette shrugged, looking down at the busy street below.
"I just...if I was goin' to tell ya', it was going to be on my t'oi'ms...not some bum judge's." Jack shook his head, hair falling in front of his face.
"There are a lot worse things you could have lied about-"
"A name is somethin' that makes up a person, Dave...it's a big thing- one o' the first things yous learned about a person is their name. And I couldn't even give that to ya'."
"Jack,"
The blonde felt a hand on his shoulder, giving him just enough courage to glance over at Davey, features framed by moonlight.
"You did tell me your name. Jack Kelly."
"But that's-" Jack began.
"Do ya' think I'm lyin'?" Davey mocked with a grin, lifting his eyebrows.
"Oh you cocky basta'd." Jack snorted and shoved Davey away lightly with a smile.
"Why don't you go by your given name though..?" The lengthy teen questioned, "If you don't mind my asking."
Jack let out a long sigh, followed by a shrug, "I'm not too proud about what my parents became. Francis Sullivan... was the name me motha' gave me...I could hardly remember her enough to attach too many emotions to her...and I just...she was impersonal to me so my name was as well...and my fada'-" He snorted, "Well, I can thank him for Sullivan- And he- He didn't do nothin' but give me the rank in society that I got now. I didn't want nothin' to do with that...I wanted to be...indeepend'nt...wanted to be my own person and leave my old name and old life behind. Make my own decisions without anybody else tellin' me otherwise. Don't gotta' listen to nobody-" Jack paused, ringing his hands, "Then yous show up and- it was like wakin' up from a dream...you had such a grasp on reality, Dave...and you showed me that hey, maybe reality ain't so bad." He finished, biting the inside of his cheek.
"Jack.." Davey's voice was just above a whisper.
"You boys up here?" Medda's booming voice came from the trap door that led to the roof, her head popping into it, "Jack, Davey! Come down here, it's time for bed!" She demanded.
"Uh- thanks, Ms.Medda, but I think I'll take a snooze up here tonight." Jack grinned sheepishly at the woman.
"Oh no you don't!" Medda shook her head, "I am not letting you catch a cold at a time like this. I better see you two in your beds by the time I come back to check on y'all or-"
"I don't got a bed anyhow, Ms.Medda, and the roof don't bother me." Jack shrugged with a sly grin as he turned to lean his back against the wall.
"No bed? I sent Racetrack to get beds for everyone-"
"He didn't realize that Jack was here, so we're one short." Davey chirped up quietly.
"That will not do. Honey, you can take my room in back if you need-" Medda began.
"Medda, I could never, you need rest just as much as-"
"My bed's got enough room." Davey remarked, unsure as to why he'd chosen to speak up, and regretting the words the second they came out of his mouth. His jaw was already clamped up and his eyes were wide. Why had he felt the need to say that, Why-
"Dave, it's oka-" Jack shrank down slightly as he was interrupted again.
"What a kind gesture," Medda beamed at Davey, and gave a wink to Jack that Davey seemed to focus on a little too much, "Well, you boys wrap it up- I'll come to check down there soon!"
As soon as Medda left, Jack shook his head, “You didn’t have to do that.”
Davey shrugged, “You’ve been sleeping on a heap of curtain for the past few nights, Jack. You deserve to at least have some comfort.” The brunette tried to still his beating heard with a calm tone.
“Yeah but now- now yous don’t get as much room.” Jack mumbled, kicking the ground with his foot, “Plus who’s said the curtains ain’t comfy?” He smiled cockily at Davey.
“You would rather sleep on a roof than on those curtains, I think you said that.” Davey smirked, slipping his hands into his front pockets.
“Aw, shut up, Jacobs. Don’t be witty.” Jack waved his hand dismissively at the other as he looked towards the trap door.
“But, if you don’t feel comfortable about it- we can just switch beds, you know.” Davey scratched the back of his neck self-consciously.
“Then yous gotta sleep on the curtains, Dave!” Jack argued with a shake of his head, “I won’t-“
“You just said they were comfy.” Davey leaned forward with lifted eyebrows.
Jack flushed with a scowl, tipping his head back and rolling his eyes, “There’s no stoppin’ you is there.”
“I’m inevitable.” Davey shrugged.
The dirty-blonde snorted before walking towards the trap door and sitting beside it, still open from when Medda had left- how she managed to get up here on the first place without the others noticing was a mystery. Jack glanced over at Davey, “Fine, I’ll take your bed, so long as we switch back every otha’ day, alright?”
Davey felt his heart drop in disappointment at Jack’s decision but offered a small smile and a nod, “Sounds good.”
As Jack hopped down, Davey allowed a frown on his face, only for a moment, before shaking it off. He was getting his hopes up again, that wasn’t safe.
“You comin’ or what?” Jack popped his head up and cocked it at Davey.
“C-Coming.” Davey nodded, jogging after the other boy and slipping down the trap door.
***
Davey couldn’t say he was particularly fancying the curtains. They were lumpy and stiffer than expected. He hadn’t seemed to notice how uncomfortable they were until after his focus could be parted from making facial gestures at Jack who kept throwing his eyebrows around his face to make them look funny, a small game he could play with Davey while they couldn’t speak.
The lights were out now and Davey felt more alone than ever. He’d always been used to sleeping next to someone, sharing a bed with Les since the he was born, and having shared a bed with his parents before that. Even when he’d been over on the foam bed, he was so close to other newsies that it hardly made a difference. Now, with his entire set up dragged several feet away, facing the darkness of the wings, Davey was finding himself less sensible. His heart rate was increasing unreasonable and he found himself pulling a heap of curtain over himself to feel secure. His lips parted to let out small breaths to keep himself steady.
Imagine being this reliant on human contact. It didn’t matter who it was, it was the same sense of security that Davey craved to simply feel functional as a human being. It’s what he appreciated about the Newsies. And what Davey hadn’t realized he’d appreciated until now. He’d always felt uncomfortable with physical affection from anyone other than his direct family and...perhaps Jack, on the occasion. But looking back at all the hugs and head-ruffles and jostling around that the Newsies did to Davey, he felt comforted by it. He didn’t always prefer it, but it was better than the complete lack of human interaction. Even just knowing someone is sitting with their back to yours so you feel safe. Even if Les couldn’t take on a rabbit if it tried to fight him, he felt safe when his back faced Les’s at night, knowing he and his brother were there for each other.
And when Davey had fallen into Jack’s arms the other week...it was that feeling but more...it wasn’t a feeling just anyone could give Davey. He longed for that feeling in particular now more than ever. To have his back close enough to be pressed to Jack’s chest, to feel warmth and contentment and-
“Dave...” A hushed voice whispered as a hand brushed Davey’s shoulder.
The brunette gasped quietly, despite recognizing the voice, “Jack?” He whispered sharply, “You should be asleep.”
“So should you.” Jack snorted.
“...Why are you over here?” Davey responded quietly, sitting up to look at the dim silhouette of Jack, just barely lit up by the cracks in the roof above them, which has been there for years, now finally seeming useful.
“You breath loud- didn’t sound too great, just uh...seein’ how you is..” Jack mumbled, sounding almost shy to Davey.
“Just...it’s okay. It’s only just colder over here, that’s all.” Davey muttered with a shrug.
“Well, why not drag this over to us then?” Jack recommended.
Davey blinked a few times. He hasn’t considered that. He figured if Jack hadn’t pulled it over then there must be a reason for it, “I thought you couldn’t..”
“I just didn’t get around to it..” Jack shrugged.
Davey wasn’t sure he believed that answer, but didn’t push farther, simply got to his feet slowly, grabbing at the edge of the curtain.
“It’s weighted so it’ll be a bit hefty and heavy. I’ll get the other side- try not to wake the fellas.” Jack murmured.
“There isn’t a lot of room, where should we put it that it won’t touch someone’s bed?” Davey held clumps of curtain in his grasp so that he held half of if, while Jack did the same, the tips of their fingers brushing under the mass of curtains, to Davey’s knowledge.
“It ain’t going to hurt me if the curtain touches my bed. We’s is trading it off anyway. Just put it to the right of mine, there’s enough room.” Jack whispered.
Davey thanked the darkness for concealing the giddy smile on his face that Jack would be the one who would have his back to Davey’s. He began walking backwards towards that spot, Jack following until Davey stopped abruptly, nearly causing in a collision but ending only with Jack stumbling forward and slipped his hands over Davey’s to steady himself.
“C-Careful.” Davey cleared his throat as they gently lowered the mass of curtains, Jack nodding before they laid it on the ground with a gentle thump.
Jack sighed quietly as he stood back up before flopping onto the foam.
Davey took a moment to smile at the situation and consideration. Jack had noticed something was off from several feet away- had he had his senses focused on Davey? Heard his breathing and mapped the pattern of someone who was distressed? Davey was too tired to think about it as he knelt down and laid himself sideways, back facing Jack as he sighed happily.
“So cold, turnin’ away from a fella who’s helped you.” Jack chuckled.
Davey turned over, “What?”
“Yous didn’t even look at me, just turned that way.” Jack sniffed with amusement.
“I- isn’t that how people should sleep? With their backs to the other?” Davey whispered.
“If you’s being hunted or som’n. Nobody’s comin’ after ya’, Dave.” Jack murmured in a soothing voice.
Davey thought about this and relaxed slightly, “I guess I’m just used to...feeling like someone’s there behind me incase there is...not that there would be just...”
“Just incase?” Jack finished.
Davey nodded.
“Tell you what, you face that way, I’ll face that way too. I don’t need nobody behind him, but I’ll be behind you.” Jack nodded.
Davey agreed with this, “Okay..” He whispered before turning over, suddenly feeling childish, “I..I’m behind you, Jack...”
Jack, having already turned over as quietly as possible, as to not alert the other boy, so his back securely faced Davey’s, smiled gently, “I know, Dave.”
18 notes · View notes
slasher-party · 4 years ago
Note
H-hey Bo- how would you tell your crush you love them? I'm just uh- a s k i n g f o r a f r i e n d . Most definitely.
Tumblr media
“You askin’ for relationship advice? Shit,” Bo chuckles, “I may not be much of a romantic, but I sure as hell know how to make things work out in my favor.
"Alright," He claps, rubbing his hands together, "Vince, Lester, c'mere; time t'learn a thing'r two from your big brother. If y'can't land a sweetheart this way, I'd say you're just plain f*cked. So listen up."
The masked brother already doesn't like this. He crosses his arms expectantly, head tilted downward slightly.
"Learnin'? Learnin' what, Bo?" The youngest tilts his head, oblivious to whatever horrors may be lurking in Bo's 'tutoring'.
"Hey, now, quit lookin’ at me like that. One'a these day's you'll have'ta strike out on your own, Vince. Y'can't keep pickin' up my sloppy seconds. And Lester, you can't keep pickin up... well. Slop.
"So here's how it works," Bo flips over a nearby bucket and steps one foot up onto it, leaning his weight against his leg casually, "When it comes to me, it’s real simple: I see what I want and I make it mine. The best way t'get someone t'say 'yes' is to make sure 'no' isn't an option.
"Pop quiz. Gimme one example of how I might do that; both of ya."
Vincent puts a hand on his face. He points down, 'Your cellar.'
"Oh yea! I was gonna say duct tape." Lester nods in agreement.
"Right, right, but odds are they don't have MY garage. So step one is findin' your own place. Then, clean yourself up. Be charmin'. Invite 'em over alone. Make sure all the doors'r locked and the exits are blocked. Maybe sit down for a nice meal, then pop the question. If your lady or fella's onboard, consider it a success. If they're not, well. Keep 'em there until they are. Maybe toss in a nice threat or two, and I've yet t'meet anybody that can't be motivated by pain~
Now, if they take an 'specially long time t'come around, you'll probably get bored in the long run anyhow, so finish 'em off an' dump em some place good. Any questions?"
The roadkill boy looks down, confused. "But ain't that kinda rude?"
'Everything he does is rude,' Vincent remarks. 'You know a relationship is a thing, right?'
"Sure, but what the Hell would I want with one'a those?" The mechanic scoffs, "Trust me on this one: When it comes t'meetin people, y'get whatcha need outta someone an' that's it, unless they're family. Why do you think I keep you two dumbasses around? Masochism? It's cause blood's the only thing y'can trust.
“I guess th'moral a'this story is that I don't have crushes t'tell, sweetheart. I stopped tryin'a settle down a long, long time 'go. Sorry if it isn't much help. But don' give me non'a that depressin' shit. It just isn't worth the trouble'a gettin' mixed up with someone y'd never be able t'trust. The best advice I have t'give is: go it alone as long as y'can.
“Cheap thrills're better than heartache, I can promise y'that." ‘...’ His twin sighs, coming over and patting his shoulder. 'Shut up, Bo.' "Aw, Bo! Y'sadder than Vince AND me put together!" Lester gets pouty, punching his other shoulder. "Maybe y'should listen t'Vinny about ladies."
"I said no depressin’ shit! And, the Hell does Vince know about women?! Why him?!" "Cause he ain't sad and depressed!" “Why, you--”
'And I've spend more quality time with your "leftovers" than you.' Bo shakes his head in disbelief, "If you're such a Romeo, how about you answer th'question, then." Vincent straightens his back, 'Dinner. A FEW, dinners. Perhaps letters, even. I would know them before deciding if they were worth my while.' He nods. 'My time is precious, after all. They would have to respect my art if they want to live. No question.'
"Seems like y'put some thought into this," Bo arches a brow.
'If you stopped thinking with your downstairs primarily, you might've thought of it first,' Vince retorts. 'I've mused on the idea before. It's not weird.'
"I think 'bout it too!" Lester raises his hand.
Bo subtly strokes his finger with a sneer at his twin. "Alright, Lester, give us whatcha got."
"Okay, hear'me out." He puts both hands up, grinning. "Stargazin on th'bed o'my truck! Maybe a couple beers, light conversation, moooonlit night... an'then I'd ask her to be m'girlfriend!"
'...Simple enough. I like the stargazing idea.' Vincent taps his chin thoughtfully.
"... Heh," Bo can't help but smile, patting his younger brother's shoulder, "Whoever lands you will be one lucky son of a b*tch, you goddamn ray’a sunshine. Vince, toss this kid back in th'road before he outshines us."
The twin chuckles, throwing Lester over his shoulder. 'Here we go. Roadkill duty.'
"Awwwhh, it's okay! Y'all can steal m'idear!" He giggles, "I ain't gon'be mad~ s'long as y'ain't steal m'date!~"
5 notes · View notes
peggysousfan · 5 years ago
Text
Agent Carter AN Au Series
Its here!!! Chapter 12 is partially done! Since the episodes and the story have to coincide with each other, each episode will likely be 3+ chapters each. This chapter is only part of episode 1 and its 2500+ words...so yeah. I’m gonna have a lot of revision and thinking to do for future chapters XD I hope y’all enjoy this one!!!!
Peggy's POV:
I rise early in the morning, right before the sun. I see that Steph is sound asleep, and I slip away for a shower. Today I start working again, and while I am thrilled to leave this building and do more than sit around and read, I am worried. I've never been away from my little poppet before, and I don't know how long I'll be able to go without seeing her. I'm suppose to be in the office at 9 O' Clock and leave around 5, but I'm hoping to leave sooner than that. I know the Jarvis's will take good care of her, but I'm still fearful of what the day lintels. I step out of the shower and quickly change, only to hear Stephanie start to cry. I pick her up and start to nurse her.
Shes been doing amazing since Daniel helped. Daniel... Oh bloody hell. I forgot. What will me working entail for us? I hope we'll still be able to spend time together. I don't want us to grow apart. We've been getting so close...and I'm not exactly sure how to feel about it to other than amazing. I'm not sure if he feels this feeling I do when we're together, but I hope we'll be able to explore it further. Once Steph is finished I lay her back down and make some tea and toast. Colleen grabbed the newspaper earlier and I haven't gotten to read it yet, but when I do, I'm in complete shock. CAPTAIN AMERICA ALLAY YET TO EXPLAIN WEAPON SALE. Oh dammit Howard,  what have you done now... I set down the paper and finish getting ready for work. I water the plant and start to fold up the bed, until Colleen enters.
"Oh don't bother, I can't feel my feet." Shes been working more nigh shifts lately and has just returned home.
"Colleen."
"They let 10 girls go yesterday" Here lately since the war ended, woman have been loosing their jobs left and right.
"Did they say why?"
"Because 10 more GI's got discharged." She fluffs the pillows and lies down on the bed. "I had to show a guy from Canarsie how to use a ribbon gun." Its terrible, the world we live in. Woman are seen as less than men, and are forced out of there jobs to make room for them. "Oh I think I have tuberculosis..." Oh dear... that may explain why she has been feeling under the weather lately.
"Thanks by the way, you lent this to me last night while you were at work." Stephanie had barfed all over my sweater in the evening, and before Colleen had left, she let me wear it. She waves it off.
"It looks better on you, ya know. Its something that might catch a mans eye. Say on a date...maybe with a certain fella down the hall..."
"Don't hold your breath." I say. I don't know if he feels the same way, and anyhow we're really good friends. I go to the closet and get my gun to put in my bag. I've had it hidden in a small storage box this whole year. "Especially with tuberculosis." She laughs.
"You know theres a difference between and Independent woman and a spinster. "I walk out of the closet and pick up Stephanie, thankfully she's still sleeping.
"Is it the shoes?" she laughs again. "Clock out, pull the curtains and sleep. Peggy's orders." I grab the nappy bag for poppet and turn to Colleen.
"Okay, but remember if I don't see you, we're going to the movies on Saturday. I have the night off."
"I'll try this time, but you know the office may try to keep me busy."
"Peg, you're working at the phone company, it ain't life and death." At this Steph begins to stir in my arm and snuggle closer.
"Darling... you have no idea." We laugh one last time and then I head out of the door.
Daniels POV:
When I get into the office this morning, theres more buzz than usual. Dooley keeps walking in and out of his office, and the other agents are walking around, answering phones, and writing up reports. Next thing I know, chief walks past me to the elevator.
"Hey look who decided to show up today."
"I'm here everyday Krizminski."
"Not true. You're not here on weekends." I get to my desk, set my crutch aside, and sit down. "Plus you've been skipping out."
"What? No I haven't." This guy is such a pain in my ass.
"Thompson confirmed it earlier. Is it true? You got a dame on your arm, Sousa?" I take a deep breath, let it out, and roll my eyes. "Hey, this is your chance. If you don't have one, then your luck might be changin'"
"What are you rambling on about?"
"We're getting a new secretary, maybe shes your type.. Hell, you could probably lure her in the file room and make a move." He laughs
"What? I thought we were getting a new agent today, not a secretary..."
"Whatever. Lady Agent, secretary, same thing." Lady Agent...? Before I can say anything else, Dooley walks in, and hes not alone. Holy shit...
"Alright, listen up. I have an announcement to make." As the chief speaks, the new agent  and I lock eyes, and I'm not sure which one of us is more in shock. "This is our new agent, Agent Carter, from the Brooklyn office in New York." Brooklyn office? It was shut down 6 months ago, where- oh, she was pregnant with Stephanie. Stephanie, whose fathers name was Steve... Oh my god.  Steve Rogers, as in Captain America, is Stephanie's father; and shes inherited part of the serum. That explains her strong smacking and flailing arms. I can see Peggy in instant panic, the moment she sees me. Dooley shows her where her desk is and she gets to work, but every eye in the office keeps staring for several minutes before they, too, get to work. God dammit, how could I have been so stupid..? It doesn't take long for her to slip a note to me to meet her in the file room.
"You can't tell anyone about Stephanie." Wow, okay, right to the punch. "Daniel, please, no one can know who her father is." I can see it in her eyes how worried she is. Does she not trust me to not say anything?
"Of course I won't say anything, Peggy." She breaths a sigh, leans back, and closes her eyes. When she opens then, she glances at me, and then away.
"I've been doing so well, what with keeping the identity of her father secret, I don't want anyone to know."
"Thats okay, I get it. I promise I won't tell anyone." She looks at me, as if shes analyzing me, looking for any lies or alternate motives, I guess she not finding any. Which makes sense, cause I have none.
"I had no idea you worked here, Daniel."
"Yeah, well... I do my best to keep my work life and personal life separate. And for the most part, its been working, but..."
"Now I'm here." It wasn't a question, as much as it was a statement. I nod my head and look away.
"I'm sorry..."
"For what?" I finally look at her.
"I appear to always be intruding in your life, and I apologize for that." she gives a dry chuckle. "But you are right to do so. To keep work and personal separate, I think we both need to do that." And my heart is starting to sink. I was afraid of this the moment I saw her in the office. I was afraid we'd grow apart because we wouldn't see each other, now its the opposite, we're going to see each other none-stop. I look down at the ground and nod my head.
"I agree. Complete strangers. We've never met before today and we don't mean anything to the other." I breath a sigh, and her head turns so fast to me, it looks like she had whip lash.
"Right. Complete strangers..." She looks like shes thinking of something. She tilts her head to the side as she bites the corner of her lip... dammit Daniel. I back away from her and turn away.
"Daniel? Where are you going?
"To my post Agent, or did you forget we have work?" She looks offended and shakes her head.
"Daniel..." She looks upset as she starts to walk closer.
"Sorry, I just.. need a minute to process this." She furrows her brows and glances way for a second. "I need a minute to process going from friends to nobody I'm suppose to care about in an instant."
"Nobody- Daniel." She looks appalled and grabs my arm. "What-"
"Well well well, look what we have here." Dammit Thompson. "You two seem nice and cozy. What are you doing down here?" Peggy immediately drops her hand and backs away slightly, and as subtly, as she could.
"Agent Sousa was just showing me the filing system,hes been very helpful."
"Well I bet he has..." She looks between us both confused, but doesn't say anything." Well since you're down here, why don't you put these away for me?"He hands them to me. "See  just how much more help Sousa can be." And with that he walks away.
"What an ass." I say
"What an arse" she says. We both say it at the same time.  I look over at Peggy and she looks at me, and we both laugh.
Peggy's POV:
After several hours of being at work, I am in complete agony. I miss my daughter. What I wouldn't give to be home right now. I sit at my desk with a  report in hand and a pencil in the other. Around and around I spin it, over and over again I read the same damn sentence. Ugh... I look in front of me, and I can see Daniels back turned. I still can't believe he works at the SSR. As I begin to get my mind set back to work, the alarm blares and the red lights flash. I look up and then at Daniel, and our eyes meet. Somethings happening. I get up from my seat and gather some papers, when suddenly the Chief and the others walk to the meeting room.
"Agent Carter, we just caught a red ball out of DC, all hands on desk." I start to gather supplies when he says, "Meaning,  cover the phones." Wanker... I grab my telephone and dial up Rose from the entrance.
"Rose? Forward all calls to the briefing room." She agrees and I set down the phone. "Covered, Shall we?" As we head to head to the conference room, Dooley begins to play a film, a film about Howard.
"So far, six pieces of Stark technology have either shown up on the black market or in the arsenals of enemy states. Hes been waffling on the hill. Treating the whole thing like a joke. And yesterday was his final day of hearings. Stark didn't show." Good Lord Howard, I'm going to kill you if I ever see you again. "We've checked his half-a-dozen houses, his half-a-dozen offices. Nothing." He's such an idiot that man. I look away from the chief and look at  Daniel, he has no idea what really is going on..." So as of this moment, Howard Stark is a fugitive from justice. Find him. Squeeze him. Till he looses his sense of humor. Thompson you lead." As I look over at Thompson, he starts to explain his ideas and plans, but I can't stand to listen to any more.
"Sir, I really must object-"
"Why am I not surprised." I internally sigh of frustrations. I already know where this is headed..
"Sir, I knew Howard Stark during the war, his help was invaluable. He may be a great many things, but hes not a trader." As I say this I glance at Daniel, whose eyes are glued to me. I look away as the chief speaks.
"We're all aware of your record Agent. I'm sure being Captain Americans...liaison... brought you into contact with all sorts of interesting people. But the Wars over. Let the professionals decide with whats gonna happen." And with that the meeting ends, of course, not without some gossip and rude slander about me and men during the war. Ugh, men are such pigs... But what I didn't expect was Daniel to speak up.
"What did you just say Krizminski?"
"I wasn't talking to you." I close my eyes and take a deep breath. This is going to be a very long day...
"I think you owe the lady an apology."
"Oh. You standing up for her now, Sousa? Well c'mon I ain't got all day." I look away before I lash out at this oaf. Little do you know the strength this man has you utter wanker. Hes worth 10 of you, at least. Krisminski and the others leave, which just leaves Daniel and myself. When he starts to walk by, I say something; something I hope he won't take offence to.
" Agent Sousa, about what you just did..."
"Oh that? It was noth-"
"I wish you hadn't," I say plainly. We have to keep up a front with our co workers, and with Daniel defending me, they could get suspicious.
"You're an Agent and they treat you like a secretary. I just wanted to-"
"And I'm grateful." I smile. "But I'm more than capable at handling whatever these adolescents throw at me." We lock eyes, and my heart starts to skip a beat...
"Yes ma'am. Doesn't mean I have to like it though."
"Well thats another thing we have in common." As we stand there, Thompson approaches us, and of course, he hands me files to put away. Arse.
"I would file these away, but you're so much better at that sort of thing. Ya know, cause you're a woman." I glance at Daniel, briefly, and I can see him getting angry.
"Better at what, Agent Thompson? The alphabet? I could teach you. Lets start with words beginning with 'A'" He laughs and walks away.
"Good one." I look at him and can't help but smile. Oh this is going to be so difficult pretending to not know him at all; let alone ignore how I feel... We both head to our desk and start working again. Before I know it, its 4 'O clock. Oh thank God. I put away my files, grab my coat, and head over to the Jarvis's. Little does Howard know, I've met them several times, and have asked them to never tell Howard about her. As far as they know they are babysitting my niece, whom, I'm taking care of while her parents are away. I hate all of this lying, especially to good people, but no one can know the truth. When I pick up Stephanie, I feel a weight lift off of my chest, I can finally go home with my little girl. And, I don't have to make dinner. The Jarvis's graciously made a roast for me and Colleen, but since it is large enough, I'll invite Daniel over. I leave a note under his door. Hours go by and he knocks at the door.
"Daniel." I walk over to him and embrace him. I've wanted to do this all day. He hold me close, and the Steph begins to giggle. We both laugh. She reaches for him and gables her baby talk. I hand her over and invite him inside.
"So, I hear you have a roast." he says, snuggling with poppet.
"Indeed we do." As we sit down and eat together, I can't feel more at peace.
5 notes · View notes
nialledfromfics · 6 years ago
Text
Tumblr media
Chapter Five - Dream Lover
(make sure you click the link in the title for an instant musical throwback ~ enjoy!)
The following three weeks had passed by quickly for Vivian. The weather had grown increasingly warmer and her eighteenth birthday was approaching–only a few days away–and with spending every free moment with Niall that she could, really, the girl had never been happier. They had dates at the drive-in, went for sodas at Betty’s, spent a fun evening at the county fair in the next town over, and on one wicked hot afternoon, found themselves at Vivian’s favorite secluded spot: Big Oak Pond.
It was a small swimming hole, tucked up a ways on some lush land that Vivian’s family owned. Giving the spot its moniker all by herself, it was a special place she had gone to since she was a child; spending the dog days of summer keeping cool in the water and swinging from the rope that was tied to the big oak tree right on the bank. No one knew a thing about it. She had kept it a secret from everyone in her life, even her best friends, not wanting to share her serene and magical little place with anyone.
Until Niall.
Camped out on a picnic blanket, Vivian had brought Niall up to Big Oak Pond only a couple of times, once when they were on their way to the fair just to show him her secret place, and another to watch the sunset one evening after having some ice cream at Sunday’s. But there they were, on a scorching late Wednesday afternoon having just finished up a nice packed meal that Vivian had made for them. She had decided to pick him up at the shop after school let out, Niall asking Phil who kindly let him take the rest of the evening off. It was very nice of him, but Phil knew how hard Niall worked. He also knew who Vivian was, or more importantly, who her father was and he would do anything to keep things pleasant.
Niall was leaned back on his palms with Vivian nestled snugly in between his bent up legs. Her back was laying against his front, clad in only a white tank as his dirty work shirt had been removed and lay crumpled beside them, and her arms were hooked over his thighs. They quietly watched a few of the roaming ducks float around the dank colored water as they sat, a refreshing light breeze whizzing around them.
Vivian closed her eyes, a little contented hum easing past her lips as she counted the padder of Niall’s heart thumping against the back of her neck. She felt like she was in heaven like that with him. With her head resting on his chest, Niall tipped his chin down and nuzzled his nose into her hair, taking in a tiny breath. She smelled so pretty, like a field of blooming wildflowers. Vivian felt the adoring gesture and turned her face to look up at him. He smiled at her, his heavy gaze swarming over hers before he leaned in to press a soft kiss to her lips. He would never love anything as much as he loved kissing her. She was so gentle and kind, every ounce of her better than the last. Niall knew he was the luckiest fella on the planet and being there with her–Vivian cradled against him, her tender kisses on his lips–he was sure he would never take her for granted and always do everything to keep her safe.
She was the only girl he had ever felt that way about.
“This is my favorite place on earth,” the young woman sighed out as she turned her attention back to the bathing ducks in the middle of the pond. She rubbed her palms against the outside of Niall’s knees, oblivious to the days-old grease splattered on his jeans. “And now I get to share it with my favorite person.”
Niall chuckled, pushing a kiss to her temple before he reached up to gently card his fingers through the side of her flowing hair, brushing it from her face. It made Vivian’s eyes flutter. “Guess that makes it my favorite place now too, eh?”
“But of course,” Vivian agreed with a sheepish giggle.
There was another moment of peaceful quiet before Vivian turned her head slightly towards him again, Niall’s fingers stalling at the ends of her hair. “Niall, can I ask ya somethin’?”
His mouth turned down at the corners. “Sure, love.”
Vivian sat herself up from her place on Niall’s chest and shifted her body around to face him, crossing her legs underneath her. She was wearing a pair of baby pink shorts and a white flowy summer blouse, her sandals having long been taken off and sitting at the corner of the patchwork quilt. Her hands were wringing in her lap, something Niall had taken notice of, and Vivian wasn’t even sure why she was nervous; really there was no reason for her to be. Maybe it was the question she was about to ask, maybe it was because she had waited so long to ask it, but either way, there was a slight apprehension inside her that wasn’t sure what his answer would be.
“So, you know my birthday is comin’ up, this Saturday in fact,” she started, looking over at him, “and well, I’m havin’ a party at my house. It’s a huge event, everyone’s gonna be there...and I was wonderin’, well, I’d like it if...maybe, you’d come.”
Clicking his jaw to the side, Niall’s blue eyes narrowed slightly and a lopsided smirk tugged at his lips. She knew in that instant that her worry was for nothing. “You invitin’ me to your party?”
Vivian nodded her head, her soft waves of light brown hair bouncing against her shoulders. “Yeah...but if it’s too much–”
“I’d be honored,” he said, cutting her off. Niall reached out to gently cup his hand around her upper arm, giving it a little squeeze. Vivian had no idea why she had been so nervous asking him, or why she had waited so long to do it. Maybe for the fact that in the back of her mind, she was afraid he wouldn’t still be with her by the time her party arrived…
“Great!” she exclaimed, hunching her shoulders in an excited laugh. “Its really gonna be a gas, I just know it. You can meet all my friends, and…well, and my parents too.”
Niall sat himself all the way up, grabbing a cigarette out of the pack that laid on the blanket beside him and lit one up. Taking a puff, he blew the smoke out above their heads. “So, your parents know about me?” he asked.
Tucking her knees up to her chest, Vivian peeked up at the sky, watching the clouds roll by overhead. “My momma does. Sorta.”
“What’s that mean?”
Vivian shrugged. “I dunno, just means I told her about you once, but…”
“But your old man…”
Niall locked his eyes with Vivian’s. “Daddy still doesn’t know.”
“Viv!” Niall groaned.
“I’m gonna tell him, okay? I’m gonna, I swear it.”
Niall shook his head. “We talked ‘bout this, Viv, last week at the fair, you said you were gonna tell him.”
“I know,” she said, peering down at her lap, “and I will. I just gotta find the right time, is all.”
Niall pushed out a huff. Plucking the cigarette from between his lips, he leaned forward and reached out with his other hand, hooking a finger under Vivian’s chin to bring her enticing green eyes to his. “I’m serious ‘bout you, Viv. More serious than anythin’ in me life. I don’t want us to be a secret no more, it was alright in the beginnin’, when things were–… well, new and all, but I wanna tell the world ‘bout us. I want your parents to be okay with me, with us bein’ together.”
Vivian’s lips tugged into a smile. “Me too.”
“And it can’t be okay, if they don’t even know.” She nodded and Niall scratched his nails through the scruff on his jaw. “So, uh, who else is gonna be at this party, anyhow? Anyone I know?”
It was subtle, but not subtle enough that Vivian wasn’t quick to catch on to what he was referring to. Cliff. To be perfectly honest, she hadn’t even thought about Cliff and the guys being at her party, or how Niall would deal with being in the same room with them. She should have, but just the thought of making sure Niall would attend was the only thing that had been on her mind. Her green eyes shifted down his rugged features. “I…” she paused.
Niall wrinkled his brow slightly as he took another puff of his cigarette, aware of what she was thinking. He wasn’t trying to put her on the spot, or make her choose, it was her party after all and she had the right to invite whomever she wanted, but he really hated them fellas. For Vivian though, he would make the best of any situation. He would do anything to make her happy. “Ya know what, don’t worry ‘bout it, love, it’s fine.”
“No...no, Niall, I’ll take care of it, I promise. I don’t want any of ‘em there anyway.” Vivian shook her head. “The only person I care about bein’ at my party,...is you.”
A hint of a smirk cracked across Niall’s lips before his face fell and he dropped his stare. “There’s somethin’ I gotta be honest with you about, concernin’ them guys. Somethin’ I never told ya.”
Furrowing her brows at his unexpected statement, she watched as Niall took one last long drag of his cigarette and flicked the end into the grass by the edge of the water. What could he possibly mean by that? Licking over his lips, Niall wiped the sweat off of his forehead then ran his fingers through his slicked back hair and glanced up to the old oak tree that was next to them. His stare shifted between the strings of branches dotted with green leaves, and it reminded him of the piercing color of Vivian’s eyes, and he looked back over to the beautiful girl sitting before him. He could see the frightened look on her face. He definitely didn’t want to frighten her, and that was precisely the reason he had chosen not to speak up about that particular situation in the first place.
“That first night we went to the drive-in,” he began, resting his forearms on the tops of his bent up knees and locking his hands together, “our first date? I kinda ran into Cliff and them candyasses up at the snack bar.”
Vivian’s mind jarred back to that very night, quickly remembering how out of sorts Niall had acted when he came back with the popcorn and soda. She darted her eyes over his. “So that’s what was wrong with ya, why didn’t ya say somethin’?”
“I didn’t wanna ruin the night,” he confessed, faintly shrugging a shoulder, “you looked so pretty and I just wanted to be there with ya.”
Tipping her head to the side, Vivian reached out and wrapped her hand around the top of Niall’s. “What happened?”
“They cornered me, roughed me up a bit, told me to stay clear of ya, and if I didn’t there’d be hell to pay…”
Niall swallowed hard before he finished. “Cliff said he’d kill me if I didn’t leave ya alone.”
Vivian shook her head and dropped her stare to the blanket. “He didn’t mean that,” she whispered, almost unsure of the words coming out of her own mouth. She had no idea what Cliff was capable of, but that was a foolish empty threat. It had to be.
“It sure didn’t feel that way,” Niall mumbled.
There was a fire raging in her at the single thought of what Cliff and the others had done to Niall, threatening his life in that way. It just wasn’t fair how they treated him. And she knew everything that had happened over the past month; the fight, the threats and gossipy whispers and rotten looks, it had all been her fault. Niall sensed the disturbing thoughts swirling in Vivian’s mind and he tried to reassure her. “Look, it’s all fine now, ya know? He got the fight he was lookin’ for, he won’t be botherin’ us no more. It’s done.”
“It’s never done with Cliff,” she gently warned him. “I’m so sorry, Niall, I feel like everythin’ that’s happened to ya, all of it is my fault.”
“That’s not true, not at all. And ya know I would do anythin’ for you,” Niall commented.
Vivian pulled in a shallow breath, biting at her bottom lip. “I know. And I know its hard for you bein’ in this town, here with all these people that look at you like ya don’t belong, but...you do belong. I need ya to know that. I just don’t want you feelin’ like you...gotta stay...for me or somethin’…”
With his face pulling in, Niall huffed out a breath. He was beside himself. He never wanted Vivian to feel like he didn’t want to be there. That he didn’t want to be there with her. “Viv, baby, you are the only reason I gotta stay,” he said, reaching out to cradle her cheek in his hand. He leaned in and pushed a kiss to her lips.
Her eyes fell closed in contentment, his lips moving softly over hers and she was nearly breathless by the time he pulled away. Vivian rested her forehead to his. “I never want you to leave,” she whispered.
Niall rubbed his thumb across the apple of her cheek just as Vivian inched back to look at him. “At least not without me.”
****
Vivian always loved her drives home from town at night. The roads, quiet and isolated, winding through the trees and the glare of the full summer moon shining bright through the dark night, almost enough that she didn’t even have to use her headlights. It was a time for her to be alone with her thoughts, which for the past month had been over run with only one thing–Niall. She would daydream about the heat of his mouth on hers when he kissed her and the way his fingers felt delicately brushing through her hair. The way his skin smelled on a particularly balmy afternoon, or the way his blue eyes gleamed with affection every time his stare caught hers.
The thoughts always brought a smile to her lips, and that night was no different. After their little impromptu dinner picnic at the pond, Niall jumped into the water to cool off and then preceded to get Vivian all wet when he got out and smothered her with a million kisses before they both ended up falling asleep. Curled up on Vivian’s grandmother’s patchwork quilt and wrapped in each others arms, it was nearly midnight by the time Niall awoke, and he gently shook Viv’s shoulder to wake her. She was sure her father would have an absolute conniption if she were to come in that late, especially being the second time that week, so they rushed to clean everything up and drop Niall back off at the shop before Viv headed home.
She could see the lights leading the way up the long drive to the Manor as she passed through the main wrought iron gate, which had been conveniently left open. Vivian knew that it was far too late for her to be arriving home, way past her curfew as she circled around the water fountain that sat in the middle of the drive. Parking her car, Vivian grabbed her handbag from the front seat as she got out before hurrying up the steps of her front porch. She prayed to herself that her father had already long gone to bed, it would be easier for her to sneak up to her bedroom and go unnoticed if so, and she slowly unlocked the large front door and tiptoed through.
Her sandals had barely made contact with the marble floor of the foyer when she heard a sound come from her father’s study. Vivian paused, afraid to make even the slightest movement in hopes that maybe he hadn’t really noticed her come in and she could still have a chance to sneak upstairs. No such luck. The young woman heard her father clear his throat again, a distinctive sound she was all too familiar with, and she let out a sigh, dropping her arms down by her sides in defeat. Walking across the open foyer to the study just at her left, Vivian carefully eased herself into the room through the half-open door.
Her father had yet to even look up at her, just stared down at some papers that were scattered on top of his elaborately carved mahogany desk with a tobacco pipe pinched tight between his lips. Her green eyes slid up the bookcase enslaved walls, hundreds upon hundreds of books lining the shelves, as she squeezed her fingertips over the leather flap of her handbag that she held in front of her. “So, how was your night?”
He had finally spoken to her. And his brisk tone was very much evident to how the conversation was going to go. She shot her stare over to her father, not surprised to see that he was still very much looking down at the papers strewn about his desk. “Um…g-good,” Vivian stuttered. So much for trying to keep her cool. She flicked her eyes about, scraping her teeth along her bottom lip, wanting nothing more than to finish whatever the interaction was and get out of that room. “Okay, well, goodnight.”
“Vivian.”
She had already spun around to leave, but wasn’t quite fast enough. Taking in a deep breath, Vivian turned back to face her father. He was looking right at her that time, his pipe now held in his hand. “I don’t approve of you comin’ in at all hours of the night, young lady. You know the rules of this house.”
“Yes, father,” Vivian answered, swallowing hard. It felt like a billion degrees in that room.
He dipped his head down slightly, raising his brow at her. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
Vivian vehemently shook her head. Did he know something? Did he know about Niall? Vivian thought, had momma told him I was goin’ steady with someone? “N-no,” she replied again when he didn’t budge, her voice cracking slightly.
Rolling his lips into his mouth, her father lifted up his chin, his stare still locked firm on his daughter as he began to step around to the front of his desk. “You wouldn’t be lyin’ to me now, would you?”
She could feel her heart galloping in her chest like a thousand horses running a race against her ribcage. There was no way she could tell him about Niall at that moment, he would know that she had been with him all night. Vivian shook her head again. “No, daddy.”
“Alright, I expect you to remember the curfew from now on,” he said, giving her a nod. “Goodnight.”
Letting out a sigh of relief at his retreat, Vivian smiled at her father. “Okay,” she said, rushing over to place a kiss on his cheek. “Goodnight, daddy.” She hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her before clambering up the elegant winding staircase to the second floor. Twisting around the bannisters and down the long hallway, she finally made it to her bedroom. Wasting no time, Vivian kicked off her shoes and grabbed the pink rotary telephone off of the nightstand, plopping down on her stomach onto her bed.
She had to call Cherry.
Swinging her bare feet up behind her, Vivian grabbed the handset off the cradle and began to dial her best friend. The dial clicked and spun after every number and Vivian propped up on her elbows, holding the handset between her ear and shoulder as it rang. Cherry answered after the third ring and Vivian barely gave her time to say hello before she was delving into the details of her and Niall’s evening together. Her fingers twiddled with the spring cord as she talked–telling the giggly girl on the other end of the wet kisses shared and the way his body had wrapped around hers as they drifted off to sleep.
“So, ya didn’t go all the way?” Cherry asked, subtlety never her forte.
Vivian rolled her eyes up to the frilly canopy top of her bed. “No, of course not. He hasn’t even tried.”
Cherry smacked her gum in her mouth as she thought, the sound like an irritating punch to Vivian’s ear. “He’s not tried nothin’? Not even a hand up your skirt?”
“Oh God, no!”
The girl laughed. “You’re so funny, Viv. But I am surprised, I’d thought he would’ve at least gotten to second base by now.”
“Not every girl needs to go to second base. Or any other bases for that matter.”
“But why not? Feelin’ ‘em slide into home is loads of fun.”
“Cherry!” Vivian giggled at her friend’s vulgar joke, a blush spilling over her cheeks as she dipped her face down against her bed. “You’re so bad!”
Cherry laughed and Vivian took in a shallow breath to brace herself. “Hey Cher?”
“Yeah?”
“...can I ask ya a favor?”
She heard the rustling of magazine pages being flipped on the other end of the phone before Cherry replied. “Yeah, sure.”
“Do you mind tellin’ Cliff and the other guys that...they can’t come to my party on Saturday?”
“What...why’s that?”
Vivian bit at her lip, her feet swinging back and forth behind her as she picked at the plastic covering of the phone base with her fingernail. “Well, I invited Niall to the party, and with everythin’ that happened with Cliff, I just thought…it would be better if they weren’t there. I mean, I know I had invited them a while back, before I even met Niall, but...I just don’t want there to be any trouble, that’s all.”
There was a staticy silence coming from the line, almost as if Cherry had hung up the phone. “And...we both know how Cliff is, and if he gets the other boys involved, it will be a mess.”
Cherry let out a sigh. “Yeah, I guess I could tell him. I’m not sure how much he’s gonna listen to me though–”
“He’d listen to you better than he’d listen to me right now,” Vivian cut in, “I just...I can’t even bother to look at him, let alone say two words to him.”
“Yeah, I understand.”
Vivian smiled. “Thanks, Cher, I appreciate it. You really are the bees knees.”
****
Vivian awoke that Saturday morning, an excitement already buzzing over her skin as she stretched the sleep away under her blankets with a yawn. She was turning eighteen that night, and there was to be a huge party in her honor. She almost couldn’t believe that the day had finally arrived. Between her and her mother, they had been planning the event for the past six months, and now, it was only mere hours away. And despite all the planning, the one thing she was the most excited about was having Niall there. Excited, and incredibly nervous. She had yet to tell her father of them, that he even existed, but hoped that in meeting Niall it would immediately sequester all the preconceived notions that she knew he would think if he had a heads up about him. She figured if her father could just get to know him–the real him, not the town gossipy version of him–that he would grow to like him just as much as Vivian did.
It was a shot in the dark, she knew that, but it was the only shot she had.
Sitting up in her canopy bed, Vivian pushed the fallen hair from her face and glanced around her brightly-lit bedroom. Baby pink walls and frilly lace curtains. Her white furniture, ornate and trimmed with gold accents and delicate little flowers. She had shelves lined with books and trinkets and small treasures. Mostly ballerina and horse themed items, but a few things that were really special to her. Not much had changed since she was little. It never had bothered her before, but seeing as she was about to turn eighteen, seeing as she was to become a woman, it all seemed a bit...childish when she really took the time to look.
Vivian shrugged her shoulder in a small hum as she lifted her covers to slide her legs off the edge of the mattress. Hoisting herself up out of her bed, she let the long hem of her silk nightgown fall to her knees before she walked over to her closet, sifting through what she wanted to wear that day. Her green eyes gleamed as she peeked over at the back of the one closet door to see the beautiful gown that she had picked out weeks before to wear to her party. It was by far the most gorgeous dress she had ever seen, and she tipped her head to the side and reached over to gently stroke her fingertips across the satin bodice. She hoped that Niall would love it just as much as she did.
The weather had finally grown increasingly hot, sticky and humid, and even though it was only early summer, it was almost insufferable. Vivian decided on a pair of white cotton pressed shorts and lime green button up top, slipping a pair of sandals on her feet and a white headband in her hair. She could smell the bacon and hash browns that had been cooked up for breakfast as she made her way down the winding staircase to the dining room. The familiar smell wafted through the halls and seeped under the doorways, and it would always be something that stuck with her. There was nothing like a good southern breakfast after all.
Stepping into the large room, she was met with her parents already sat in their proper places at the long oak dining table, her father at the end and her mother just to his left. Her mother was sipping a cup of tea and her father was preoccupied with reading the paper, his pipe hanging from his mouth. Her mother looked up as the young woman entered. “Momma...daddy,” she kindly greeted.
Her mother flashed her a sweet smile. “Mornin’, darling.”
“Mornin’, mother.” Vivian politely smiled back as she shuffled over to her chair, which was right next to her mother. Tucking a few pieces of hair behind her ear, she sat down and let her eyes scan the delectable spread before her. Bacon, sausage, eggs, hash browns, biscuits, toast, gravy–all laid out in dishes in the middle of the table. You name it, it was there. Grasping the ice-cold pitcher of orange juice, Vivian poured herself a glass and then plucked a biscuit from the silver tray.
“So, I was kinda thinkin’,” she started, smattering butter and peach jam onto the split biscuit, “maybe we could fix up my room a bit, ya know, since I’m older now?”
Her mother looked over at her and gave her a nod. “I think that’s a swell idea, don’t you, Thomas?”
All eyes shot over to Vivian’s father, who had yet to register that his daughter had even walked into the room. “Whatever you want, Vivian,” he mumbled, clearing his throat a bit as he put down his pipe to take a sip of coffee and flip the page of the newspaper.
Vivian’s mother threw her another bright smile, her blue eyes washing over her daughter’s face. “Are you excited for your party tonight, dear?” she said, daintily having a bite of her eggs.
Letting out a small squeal, which caused her father to peek over at her, Vivian bounced in her seat. “I’m thrilled, momma. Absolutely thrilled,” she told her, picking up her glass to take a sip of juice.
“That’s wonderful,” her mother commented, tapping the corner of her napkin across her painted lips. “Oh, I wanted to ask, did you ever invite that boy to your party? The one you told me about?”
Nearly choking on her juice, Vivian’s eyes went big as she forced herself to swallow the tart liquid, a dribbled slipping down her chin. She reached up to wipe it away with the pads of her fingers and reluctantly caught the incredulous stare of her father. “Boy?” he bellowed, his voice seeming to have gone an octave deeper, “What boy?”
Vivian didn’t know what to do, what to say. She couldn’t tell him yet, it wasn’t the right time. So instead, she just gingerly shook her head. “He’s just a friend, daddy.”
“A friend?” her mother innocently questioned, looking over at her daughter with a wrinkled brow. “Why, I thought you said–”
“Daddy, were you able to get that band to come like I wanted?” It was a very blatant attempt at averting the subject, and Vivian’s heart was pounding as she kept her stare down at her plate. She quickly picked up her jellied biscuit to take a bite. A distracting mouthful of a bite.
Setting down his paper, her father furrowed his brow over at his daughter and picked up his mug to take a long sip of his coffee. Her mother, puzzled at the exchange, glanced between the two of them as she slowly became aware of the growing tension that was wavering up in the room. It wasn’t another moment before she realized what was going on. “Oh yes,” she began, flicking her pointer finger around as she spoke, “that band–the one that plays that rock and roll music that she likes!” She was hoping she could diffuse the awkward situation that she had unintentionally created.
Her father licked over his lips and set down his coffee cup, grabbing the paper and cracking it open with a flick of his wrists. “Even better, I was able to get the Simon Quartet.”
“A string band?” her mother whined, sitting back in her chair and sipping on her tea, “Oh, Thomas…”
He peered overtop the newspaper at her. “I thought it would be classy, Helen.”
“As long as they can play some music from this century, it shouldn’t be any bother,” Vivian said with a shaken giggle, tossing up her hands. God, she hoped this would appease him to not ask anymore questions about Niall.
Folding the paper out of his way, her father leaned forward on his elbows. His green eyes were on his daughter, searching her face. Vivian didn’t know what for though. “So, about this boy–”
“Mmm!” her mother spit out, clinking her cup back down to its saucer and pushing up from her chair. Vivian peeked up to meet her stare. “We have so much to get done today for the party. Busy, busy, busy!”
Flicking her eyes to her father, Vivian hurriedly took one more bite of her biscuit as her mother tapped at her upper arm to hurry her along. “C’mon, dear, let’s get going!”
Vivian slid her chair out and clambered to her feet, taking a sip of her juice to wash down the dense biscuit before waving goodbye to her father. He watched without a word as both ladies walked out of the room, Vivian diligently following her mother. The woman’s heels clicked across the marble floor of the foyer as she grabbed her sunhat, gloves and handbag from their butler, who was standing there waiting.
The two giggled like happy school children as they walked out of the front door, and Vivian’s father let out a huff as he shook his head in amusement, naturally going back to his daily newspaper and smoking pipe.
51 notes · View notes
batterymonster2021 · 5 years ago
Text
"Tentacles of Doom" | Father Ted | Series 2 Episode 3 | Dead Parrot
New Post has been published on https://hititem.kr/tentacles-of-doom-father-ted-series-2-episode-3-dead-parrot/
"Tentacles of Doom" | Father Ted | Series 2 Episode 3 | Dead Parrot
Tumblr media
God i’m not studying that booklet anymore it’s very horrifying all collectively Ted Ted yes what did you ever see a ghost when doogal i’m going to tell you some thing happened to me once it was years in the past I staying with my nice-aunt at her apartment in Connemara she’s big apartment miles from at any place it appears for the duration of the pleasant Famine a merciless landlord and his beautiful daughter used to are living there story is that he forbade a canine from hiring a younger soldier broke her coronary heart and in her despair she hung herself in her bed room the room that I was standing remembers I see Nick by using season 10 and strictly off season abruptly I heard a strange creaking noise from the fireplace one of the vital ghosts no so no I’ve not ever seen a ghost I saw one relatively yeah it was once a man all dressed in black and that i got here down one night for a tumbler of milk and he was once just sitting there in front of the tv just there right it used to be weird and you understand you’re the unusual kind of gray hair even though he wasn’t very historic Gilbert Dubin might this had been neon rice that is a door that is working ok damaged again maybe only works from my head is in it k we will have to name the plumber no no I proposal to get them worried and the other be too embarrassed to tell them how I broke it in the first situation you realize looking to give it a different tough flush good slim Ted I need to say it used to be great for me it was once a excellent robust floor condominium I was once thinking more about chat you know it’s like when he’s involved you wish to have to get that stuff away as fast this factor could be for us to flush it here and have it pop up somewhere in Sierra Leone right there head aha aha I concept jacket stash some thing in here okay let’s are attempting it now turn bloody hell just right news head very very dangerous information the holy stone of city file they are going to improve it to a category 2 relic no it can be no longer first-rate it means to be sending over just a few bitches to do a ceremony and you already know what they’re like we’ll must be on our fine habits I taught them whatever up with the holy stone okay wasn’t any individual cured there no anyone used to be lured there honey short after which these fellas began to beat him with the sticks and all that with it yeah the holy stone appears even holier than we inspiration Clapton some thing to do with that fella from England final year he touched her and he grew a beard bizarre that’ll be close to ample to improve us right here class 1 or classification will probably be very infrequent do women that may be bringing persons back to existence time-journey cloning dinosaurs what probably the most thousands of relics all over the world how do they comprehend which of them to do well there’s all these things they must think about the historical past of the Renick how many miracles will also be attributed to us all sorts of considerations go right into a determination like that what in regards to the holy stone of carmakers I certainly not come on Tate Europe it is going to under no circumstances happen well it is going down they may be absolutely coming all correct Jeff so who cares anyway I mean they arrive in strip down the wallpaper the fumigate the situation and so they’re long past what’s so unhealthy about that doodles their bishops all right yeah what is that this confusion you might have about bishops do you clearly fully grasp what they without a doubt do watching to do a fumigating house there anything like that in any respect have you got – Tommy anyhow head let’s play a sport get your intellect off it Chester buckaroos without a doubt i wouldn’t intellect a sport of the ancient Chester day me sir particularly oh no handiest joking Ted provided that you’re capable for a just right thrashing Dougal you can certainly not truly beat me ever very well jack still a poker ooh the sport of kings I notion the is not going to be so bad the industry we’ll have a appear around and see there were massive every day perish and go away nothing to fear about at home some ceremony’s on Thursday they usually’re arriving the next day now doogal this is significant take heed to me all right very well head these bishops are very primary I stay around you always simply in case so you don’t say whatever to them that you are now not supposed to assert to them oh like what like what he said to bishop Lindsey when he requested me the place I used to be when Kennedy was once shot oh yeah I mean you overreacted rather there he wasn’t accusing me of anything all proper so did have you learnt any of the bishops who’re usual I mean what are the like bishop fax is an effective ancient friend of pop Larry DOS i’ll attempt to reach Larry on his cellular he is obtained a brand new one with one other loud bleep God Almighty why does he have a mobile if he not ever picks it up after which now we have the difficulty with Jack could not we just conceal him for a couple of days no they’d hear me shouting Gary perhaps we could coach Jack to say whatever apart from drink have an impact on our girls likes find it irresistible’s a job in that lifestyles or two years in the past Duggal father Jack could also be dangerous however he’s no longer a canine here he’s now he more often than not desires to go out wait might be we would train him to say one or two matters nothing too distinctive just a few all appropriate sentences like that might be an ecumenical topic yes I are not able to suppose of any devout question that can not be answered via that what I constantly say when humans question me questions it is a excellent factor about Catholicism it’s so vague and no one fairly is aware of what it is all about I feel it could work Google’s I comprehend it’ll work it is going to work it won’t work when its head don’t know so we must try right father now we’ll have a little bit elocution lessons drink father you are not able to be announcing that at all times when the bishops come right here thank you at all times happy that either it Geron the father just just return to a drink for the second fine proper now i would like you to have a look at this have a go together with the first one here – proper no no – drink now come on father concentration that vent the strings the strings the strange bass bass bass bass bass bass bass now come on Oh father i do know you are able to do the veena – consuming it for you to do it drink sure I promise now come on are trying again that right no no Paul the nearly had it that is fine carry it trouble to hold it going here and the subsequent come again would ya toys that you left the cooker on o.K. Father i’ll be there proper father everything’s in a position there’s a massive college steaming away and i have arranged a Ferrero Rocher in a convention which Isis taking on three bishops unexpectedly can’t wait correct you understand father I feel this is going to be the greatest second of my profession it’s practically as if my entire life of leading off two special ladies’s going miss is done i am over here so you might be father this is doing excellent have you bought your contacts in no a dog ran off with them I concept I get away with that I suppose i will must put on the glasses they do not like sporting them father I think they make me appear like a pissed off historical egg all I cannot imagine that I think they look without doubt good no no no it can be just a horrifying film I used to be thinking out there first-rate relatively greenish whele that’s much better and i simply go and determine on the tv so father hmm father i’ve definitely no concept where the door is so disregard head and Google at Google they may be right here sorry about that fishbone Elia you have been saying yes quite simple ceremony we just want a little incense or incense I have no idea if we do the you realize if now we have any incense there used to be a spider in the bath last night no Judy incense incense all proper sure and no i don’t consider so that you don’t forget after we ran out of incense and we use the wind aletan well man i am certain we are able to to find some so are you doing a lot upgrading round nation final month we increased a mushroom field in Cavan touch final three races our work takes us all over the place the nation it offers us a hazard to get in touch with the traditional clergy or the ground troops as I name them sure we’re trying to prepare a giant meeting at the end of the 12 months the place all of the ranks of the clergy can discuss their views with representatives of the lay group what do you suppose are the key here sorry what do making use of the entire relationship with the lay neighborhood on this precise subject is fascinating or should a specified distance be maintained sure a just right query and good I think we will have to involve to put community to hold them at a distance how a lot of a distance couple of miles right here we are actually he for everyone oh are you okay your grid sure I yeah yeah I I had a minor coronary heart attack last year I need to take it handy axe received somewhat of a price day right he is now not a problem if you happen to could simply supply us slightly of a warning when you are going to do anything first-class I just remembered the aliens is on after the news Susan for god sake i’m sorry Victor Jordan did you no longer hear what he is pronouncing about his coronary heart you understand it’s simply immediate administrators rate come on every body let’s all have a gigantic lads night time in a heart attack that is rare enough these days there were undoubtedly a variety of prayers set for clearly we can not seem at the aliens google seen neither talking but that love assault no they wouldn’t Bishop loti high-quality go woman we are not looking at alien anyway back to religion he’ll insist not our first precedence however speak up combat back against a satirical bias of the media yes Ferrero Rocher father Ted with these Russia you are rather spoiling mrs.Doyle all correct Bishop i am sorry you had been pronouncing oh sure I was saying we must battle back towards the media but we need to make our voice heard the place is farther hatchets mrs. Doyle would you get father Hackett for us now certainly father I must say mrs. Doyle they preserve you for your feet my housekeeper is not the pleasant i’m afraid generally I consider that it can be me that should be essentially G for sorry about that right here father hackett now he is been watching forward to your talk over with haven’t you father sure Bishop O’Neill speak it oh sure this is Bishop fax yes this is Bishop Jordan yes they’re looking at you then father that’s 1 billion yes I was once just pronouncing father how i am looking ahead to discussing the social effects of one of the church’s thinking as regarding disorders of individual morality nuts 1 billion – Emmanuel motto yes I let’s for Jews would just right point father sure that is what we’d like a positive attitude like sake what quiet race i can see father Hackett making a valuable contribution over the following few days oh yes Heavenly Father hear our prayer we pray that this rock be upgraded to a category-2 relic by way of the grace of God carry treatment to all who pass within a radius of two and a half to a few ft of this at your discretion and could all who’re healed in any such means provide glory to you our Lord via your earthly type of this type to relic amen Evan i am sorry for the painting your father will meet up with the others within the white sure I noticed it on your positive attitude other so many folks are cynical about such things which you could infrequently to open the newspaper nowadays without studying some state-of-the-art and satirical articles written through some bearded lifting sure it sounds as if early will go down the sector of good I simply can be an Oh me get us a real enemy bb/d mercy predatory pleasure sure Asian ecumenical sure i’ll write you up so father do you ever have any doubts about the religious lifestyles as your religion ever validated hear listen worried about any doubts you could have been having about any elements of notion some thing like that good in the entire means God made us all correct and he’s looking down at us from heaven and everything huh huh and then his son got here down and saved everybody and all that yes and once we die we’re all going to go to heaven yes what about a little bit of main issue with the warmness laughs assault while you come face-to-face with death it makes you suppose about things I noticed that movie lately Apollo 14 jogged my memory of my own brush with dying do you know what I imply you mean you had been in house whilst you had your heart attack no how might I be in house sorry no I think no longer no I Ament i know what it can be like to be close to death sure gracefully i’ll use the historic okay so i’ll try this I see all Cheers examine the air so if God has existed forever you already know what did he do in his spare time like earlier than he made the earth and everything you recognize good all of us need to what about whilst you wear too low the meat on Fridays how come that is all correct now but it wasn’t back then I imply that the individuals who ate meat on Fridays again then they’d all go to hell or what I imply it can be man she’s now not bothering you with it no no it’s just magic oh there you might be i hope you had a fine gesture oh it was exceptional I feel I read some very fascinating conclusions Oh about what precisely good it is nonsense Ignis religion so consider about this little or no evidence blind religion that is all we must go on without a shred of proof anywhere nothing aliens now there’s anything that might just be possible everlasting existence massive demons sticking purple-scorching pokers up your ass for all eternity i don’t think so the whole religion factor I simply do not buy it i’ve been suffering from my sense of right and wrong for a while now but father McGuire used to be the primary man to spell it out me in black and white Oh Dougal what have you been as much as this man this man treasure him father clearly he has knowledge far past his 12 months thanks very so much rapid it can be Bishop Jordan I believe he’s useless there Oh Lord yeah that’s a dustbin hear this is your fax media that is the primary matters do it Duggal oh you are welcome bishop no no Eddie are you certain you want and don’t forget a selection no anyway it’s too late i’m off to India for two months with a few acquaintances ah there they’re see you once more then your grace the holy stone will it nonetheless be a class-2 once they m god bless when clear La tache
Tumblr media
0 notes
airoasis · 5 years ago
Text
"Tentacles of Doom" | Father Ted | Series 2 Episode 3 | Dead Parrot
New Post has been published on https://hititem.kr/tentacles-of-doom-father-ted-series-2-episode-3-dead-parrot/
"Tentacles of Doom" | Father Ted | Series 2 Episode 3 | Dead Parrot
Tumblr media
God i’m not studying that booklet anymore it’s very horrifying all collectively Ted Ted yes what did you ever see a ghost when doogal i’m going to tell you some thing happened to me once it was years in the past I staying with my nice-aunt at her apartment in Connemara she’s big apartment miles from at any place it appears for the duration of the pleasant Famine a merciless landlord and his beautiful daughter used to are living there story is that he forbade a canine from hiring a younger soldier broke her coronary heart and in her despair she hung herself in her bed room the room that I was standing remembers I see Nick by using season 10 and strictly off season abruptly I heard a strange creaking noise from the fireplace one of the vital ghosts no so no I’ve not ever seen a ghost I saw one relatively yeah it was once a man all dressed in black and that i got here down one night for a tumbler of milk and he was once just sitting there in front of the tv just there right it used to be weird and you understand you’re the unusual kind of gray hair even though he wasn’t very historic Gilbert Dubin might this had been neon rice that is a door that is working ok damaged again maybe only works from my head is in it k we will have to name the plumber no no I proposal to get them worried and the other be too embarrassed to tell them how I broke it in the first situation you realize looking to give it a different tough flush good slim Ted I need to say it used to be great for me it was once a excellent robust floor condominium I was once thinking more about chat you know it’s like when he’s involved you wish to have to get that stuff away as fast this factor could be for us to flush it here and have it pop up somewhere in Sierra Leone right there head aha aha I concept jacket stash some thing in here okay let’s are attempting it now turn bloody hell just right news head very very dangerous information the holy stone of city file they are going to improve it to a category 2 relic no it can be no longer first-rate it means to be sending over just a few bitches to do a ceremony and you already know what they’re like we’ll must be on our fine habits I taught them whatever up with the holy stone okay wasn’t any individual cured there no anyone used to be lured there honey short after which these fellas began to beat him with the sticks and all that with it yeah the holy stone appears even holier than we inspiration Clapton some thing to do with that fella from England final year he touched her and he grew a beard bizarre that’ll be close to ample to improve us right here class 1 or classification will probably be very infrequent do women that may be bringing persons back to existence time-journey cloning dinosaurs what probably the most thousands of relics all over the world how do they comprehend which of them to do well there’s all these things they must think about the historical past of the Renick how many miracles will also be attributed to us all sorts of considerations go right into a determination like that what in regards to the holy stone of carmakers I certainly not come on Tate Europe it is going to under no circumstances happen well it is going down they may be absolutely coming all correct Jeff so who cares anyway I mean they arrive in strip down the wallpaper the fumigate the situation and so they’re long past what’s so unhealthy about that doodles their bishops all right yeah what is that this confusion you might have about bishops do you clearly fully grasp what they without a doubt do watching to do a fumigating house there anything like that in any respect have you got – Tommy anyhow head let’s play a sport get your intellect off it Chester buckaroos without a doubt i wouldn’t intellect a sport of the ancient Chester day me sir particularly oh no handiest joking Ted provided that you’re capable for a just right thrashing Dougal you can certainly not truly beat me ever very well jack still a poker ooh the sport of kings I notion the is not going to be so bad the industry we’ll have a appear around and see there were massive every day perish and go away nothing to fear about at home some ceremony’s on Thursday they usually’re arriving the next day now doogal this is significant take heed to me all right very well head these bishops are very primary I stay around you always simply in case so you don’t say whatever to them that you are now not supposed to assert to them oh like what like what he said to bishop Lindsey when he requested me the place I used to be when Kennedy was once shot oh yeah I mean you overreacted rather there he wasn’t accusing me of anything all proper so did have you learnt any of the bishops who’re usual I mean what are the like bishop fax is an effective ancient friend of pop Larry DOS i’ll attempt to reach Larry on his cellular he is obtained a brand new one with one other loud bleep God Almighty why does he have a mobile if he not ever picks it up after which now we have the difficulty with Jack could not we just conceal him for a couple of days no they’d hear me shouting Gary perhaps we could coach Jack to say whatever apart from drink have an impact on our girls likes find it irresistible’s a job in that lifestyles or two years in the past Duggal father Jack could also be dangerous however he’s no longer a canine here he’s now he more often than not desires to go out wait might be we would train him to say one or two matters nothing too distinctive just a few all appropriate sentences like that might be an ecumenical topic yes I are not able to suppose of any devout question that can not be answered via that what I constantly say when humans question me questions it is a excellent factor about Catholicism it’s so vague and no one fairly is aware of what it is all about I feel it could work Google’s I comprehend it’ll work it is going to work it won’t work when its head don’t know so we must try right father now we’ll have a little bit elocution lessons drink father you are not able to be announcing that at all times when the bishops come right here thank you at all times happy that either it Geron the father just just return to a drink for the second fine proper now i would like you to have a look at this have a go together with the first one here – proper no no – drink now come on father concentration that vent the strings the strings the strange bass bass bass bass bass bass bass now come on Oh father i do know you are able to do the veena – consuming it for you to do it drink sure I promise now come on are trying again that right no no Paul the nearly had it that is fine carry it trouble to hold it going here and the subsequent come again would ya toys that you left the cooker on o.K. Father i’ll be there proper father everything’s in a position there’s a massive college steaming away and i have arranged a Ferrero Rocher in a convention which Isis taking on three bishops unexpectedly can’t wait correct you understand father I feel this is going to be the greatest second of my profession it’s practically as if my entire life of leading off two special ladies’s going miss is done i am over here so you might be father this is doing excellent have you bought your contacts in no a dog ran off with them I concept I get away with that I suppose i will must put on the glasses they do not like sporting them father I think they make me appear like a pissed off historical egg all I cannot imagine that I think they look without doubt good no no no it can be just a horrifying film I used to be thinking out there first-rate relatively greenish whele that’s much better and i simply go and determine on the tv so father hmm father i’ve definitely no concept where the door is so disregard head and Google at Google they may be right here sorry about that fishbone Elia you have been saying yes quite simple ceremony we just want a little incense or incense I have no idea if we do the you realize if now we have any incense there used to be a spider in the bath last night no Judy incense incense all proper sure and no i don’t consider so that you don’t forget after we ran out of incense and we use the wind aletan well man i am certain we are able to to find some so are you doing a lot upgrading round nation final month we increased a mushroom field in Cavan touch final three races our work takes us all over the place the nation it offers us a hazard to get in touch with the traditional clergy or the ground troops as I name them sure we’re trying to prepare a giant meeting at the end of the 12 months the place all of the ranks of the clergy can discuss their views with representatives of the lay group what do you suppose are the key here sorry what do making use of the entire relationship with the lay neighborhood on this precise subject is fascinating or should a specified distance be maintained sure a just right query and good I think we will have to involve to put community to hold them at a distance how a lot of a distance couple of miles right here we are actually he for everyone oh are you okay your grid sure I yeah yeah I I had a minor coronary heart attack last year I need to take it handy axe received somewhat of a price day right he is now not a problem if you happen to could simply supply us slightly of a warning when you are going to do anything first-class I just remembered the aliens is on after the news Susan for god sake i’m sorry Victor Jordan did you no longer hear what he is pronouncing about his coronary heart you understand it’s simply immediate administrators rate come on every body let’s all have a gigantic lads night time in a heart attack that is rare enough these days there were undoubtedly a variety of prayers set for clearly we can not seem at the aliens google seen neither talking but that love assault no they wouldn’t Bishop loti high-quality go woman we are not looking at alien anyway back to religion he’ll insist not our first precedence however speak up combat back against a satirical bias of the media yes Ferrero Rocher father Ted with these Russia you are rather spoiling mrs.Doyle all correct Bishop i am sorry you had been pronouncing oh sure I was saying we must battle back towards the media but we need to make our voice heard the place is farther hatchets mrs. Doyle would you get father Hackett for us now certainly father I must say mrs. Doyle they preserve you for your feet my housekeeper is not the pleasant i’m afraid generally I consider that it can be me that should be essentially G for sorry about that right here father hackett now he is been watching forward to your talk over with haven’t you father sure Bishop O’Neill speak it oh sure this is Bishop fax yes this is Bishop Jordan yes they’re looking at you then father that’s 1 billion yes I was once just pronouncing father how i am looking ahead to discussing the social effects of one of the church’s thinking as regarding disorders of individual morality nuts 1 billion – Emmanuel motto yes I let’s for Jews would just right point father sure that is what we’d like a positive attitude like sake what quiet race i can see father Hackett making a valuable contribution over the following few days oh yes Heavenly Father hear our prayer we pray that this rock be upgraded to a category-2 relic by way of the grace of God carry treatment to all who pass within a radius of two and a half to a few ft of this at your discretion and could all who’re healed in any such means provide glory to you our Lord via your earthly type of this type to relic amen Evan i am sorry for the painting your father will meet up with the others within the white sure I noticed it on your positive attitude other so many folks are cynical about such things which you could infrequently to open the newspaper nowadays without studying some state-of-the-art and satirical articles written through some bearded lifting sure it sounds as if early will go down the sector of good I simply can be an Oh me get us a real enemy bb/d mercy predatory pleasure sure Asian ecumenical sure i’ll write you up so father do you ever have any doubts about the religious lifestyles as your religion ever validated hear listen worried about any doubts you could have been having about any elements of notion some thing like that good in the entire means God made us all correct and he’s looking down at us from heaven and everything huh huh and then his son got here down and saved everybody and all that yes and once we die we’re all going to go to heaven yes what about a little bit of main issue with the warmness laughs assault while you come face-to-face with death it makes you suppose about things I noticed that movie lately Apollo 14 jogged my memory of my own brush with dying do you know what I imply you mean you had been in house whilst you had your heart attack no how might I be in house sorry no I think no longer no I Ament i know what it can be like to be close to death sure gracefully i’ll use the historic okay so i’ll try this I see all Cheers examine the air so if God has existed forever you already know what did he do in his spare time like earlier than he made the earth and everything you recognize good all of us need to what about whilst you wear too low the meat on Fridays how come that is all correct now but it wasn’t back then I imply that the individuals who ate meat on Fridays again then they’d all go to hell or what I imply it can be man she’s now not bothering you with it no no it’s just magic oh there you might be i hope you had a fine gesture oh it was exceptional I feel I read some very fascinating conclusions Oh about what precisely good it is nonsense Ignis religion so consider about this little or no evidence blind religion that is all we must go on without a shred of proof anywhere nothing aliens now there’s anything that might just be possible everlasting existence massive demons sticking purple-scorching pokers up your ass for all eternity i don’t think so the whole religion factor I simply do not buy it i’ve been suffering from my sense of right and wrong for a while now but father McGuire used to be the primary man to spell it out me in black and white Oh Dougal what have you been as much as this man this man treasure him father clearly he has knowledge far past his 12 months thanks very so much rapid it can be Bishop Jordan I believe he’s useless there Oh Lord yeah that’s a dustbin hear this is your fax media that is the primary matters do it Duggal oh you are welcome bishop no no Eddie are you certain you want and don’t forget a selection no anyway it’s too late i’m off to India for two months with a few acquaintances ah there they’re see you once more then your grace the holy stone will it nonetheless be a class-2 once they m god bless when clear La tache
Tumblr media
0 notes