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deniigi · 4 years

Note

I WOULD LOVE A DAVE FIC !!!

Excellent. Here’s for you and @dudewhereismy-tardis

I am putting most of it under the cut because it is LONG

Dave (Daredevil copycat from Inimitable Verse) POV. Reminder that Dave is not his real name, but one given to him disdainfully by Wade in this verse.

Title: rises in the east

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

“Dad.”

What?

“Dad.”

What time was it?

“Your phone’s ringing,” Charlie said. “It’s the boss.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Give it here,” Dave rasped, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Mom said you’re gonna hurt your back sleepin’ on the couch,” Charlie reported as she shoved his phone into his palm.

“My couch, my rules,” Dave said. He crammed the phone to his ear. “Ansel here,” he said.

Charlie wanted to stay home and if she was a year older, Dave would have let her. But alas. The last time he’d let her stay home, she’d texted her friend Jesse who had become unspeakably jealous and had appealed to her own parents for such freedoms, and now the whole block thought that Dave recklessly abandoned his daughter when he went to the goddamn grocery store.

All that for a can of Sprite, man.

This neighborhood was off the fuckin’ charts sometimes.

Case in point: Dani standing in front of him in the lobby with her hands on her hips, telling him that he needed to wear a tighter t-shirt or to start flexing because they were losing business.

“Dani, I’m an instructor,” he reminded her. “I’m hired to do classes.”

“It’s two hours,” Dani said. “Take the damn fliers.”

But he didn’t want to?

Dani blinked at him slowly from under her headband.

Charlie was having a great time and Dave was glad for that because he was not. He was being stared at by every person in the street as if they’d never seen a dude with muscles before.

It was the shirt.

He knew it was the shirt.

And possibly his nipples. Smashing the brochures high enough against his chest to cover them wasn’t going well and the highlighter teal underarmor Dani had forced upon him left very little to the imagination here.

There wasn’t anything else to do but let the poor things live their best lives.

“Dad, gimme more,” Charlie said.

She tugged at the brochures covering what was left of his dignity.

Blessed child, who hurt you?

“Where did the others go?” he asked her.

Charlie pointed across the road to a gaggle of ladies leaning out from their stoop, smiling.

Ah.

Yes.

Them.

“Let’s try for someone who looks more like a bro,” he told his offspring.

Charlie blinked up at him.

“Why?” she asked.

Oh, baby.

“Because they’re an easy mark,” he said. “Go up and say ‘my dad can take you’ and send ‘em my way, okay?”

Charlie’s face went from confused to ready to kill instantly.

This was her game face. This was her ‘I’m gonna wreck this goalee’s teeth’ face.

Dave shouldn’t have been proud of her, really; her teachers said that she was becoming argumentative and obstinate in the classroom. But there was just something there in the fact that his kid sure as shit wasn’t no sheep that made his chest feel big, wide, and full of hot air.

“I’m on it,” Charlie said.

He gave her three brochures and let her scramble off to the other side of the sidewalk and then turned to meet the eye of a family with a father with neat hair and the beginnings of triceps peeking out from under his sleeves.

“You lookin’ for a gym, sir?” he asked.

The guy looked his way and eyed him up.

He took a flier on his way past.

“Excuse me?”

“One second, man,” Dave said, doing the rock-shuffle to keep all the fliers on the table from blowing away.

“Excuse me.”

“Hey, I said just a sec,” Dave snapped.

He turned back and found himself staring into the dark eyes of a bald man with olive skin and deep wrinkles in his forehead.

And Dave knew him.

Holy shit.

Dave knew him.

Fuck.

God.

Jesus, Lord.

“I am so sorry,” he started.

“DAD.”

Ch—Charlie?

He looked down and sure enough, holding Rudolph ‘Diamond’ De Luca’s massive bearpaw was his very own daughter. De Luca made her wiry, suntanned limbs seem like unbaked pretzels.

He was so much bigger than he’d seemed on TV all those years ago.

“This your kid?” De Luca asked.

Jesus.

“She is. I’m so sorry,” Dave said, “Did she—she didn’t bite you or anything, did she?”

“Dad,” Charlie whined. “Don’t tell ‘im that.”

“I’ll pay for whatever damage—” Dave continued.

De Luca blinked at him impossibly slowly with long dark eye lashes. He turned his face slowly back down towards Charlie.

“You sure this is your old man?” he asked.

Wh—

Wait.

What the hell did that mean?

“That’s him,” Charlie moaned. “He’s just bein’ dumb. Dad. Stop bein’ dumb. This dude’s the real deal. He’ll fight you in a heartbeat.”

Dave grabbed his child before she could cause any more damage. She made a fuss, but let go of De Luca’s mitt. Dave shoved her behind him, just in case this situation got any more tense than it needed to be.

De Luca lifted an eyebrow at that and then brought his face back up to Dave’s.

“Who’s gym?” he asked.

What?

Oh.

“Spitfire,” Dave said. “We’re, uh, just about there, on the—”

“I know where you’re about,” De Luca said.

Dave didn’t know what to say. De Luca held his eye.

Oh, god.

This wasn’t going well.

“How old are you, son?” De Luca asked.

FFFFFFFFFFFffffffffffffuck.

“38,” Dave said.

“And your baby girl?” De Luca asked, gesturing with his chin down at Charlie.

“I’m 12,” Charlie told him brightly.

“Hm,” De Luca said.

He shifted his weight back and wrapped a few fingers around his chin, surveying Dave’s whole body like he was the statue of David with a knee injury.

Dave became intimately aware of his nipples again.

“Not bad,” De Luca said.

Oh, thank god.

“Thank you, sir,” Dave said. “Is there, uh, somethin’ I could help you with?”

“You got an accent,” De Luca noted.

Uh?

“A good accent,” De Luca said. “Whereabouts did you grow up?”

Oh.

Well.

Dave could actually just point to it from here. The condo was still standing, despite all building codes and actual alien invasions. At this point, the only thing that was gonna take it down were the rampant, rapidly mutating, borderline feral gangs of chickens that roamed its halls.

Not that anyone spoke about them.

No, that was inviting trouble to your doorstep.

“The chicken coop?” De Luca said.

The one and only.

“Bless you, you poor fuck.”

Yeah, that tended to be the usual reaction.

De Luca laughed.

“You’re a funny guy, uh,” he squinted at Dave’s nametag, “Ansel?”

How could a word sound so wrong in someone’s mouth?

Where had Dave’s life gone wrong that his own name sounded so foreign and distant to his ears?

“Actually,” he said, swallowing, “My uh, my friends call me ‘Dave.’”

De Luca’s head snapped right up and slowly, a grin spread across his face.

“Oh, now, that’s a good name for ya,” he said. “You look like a Davy.”

Hng.

Diamond De Luca thought he looked like a ‘Davy.’

Welp.

Time to get that birth certificate changed.

“Listen, Davy,” De Luca said casually, “Your baby girl there was tellin’ me that your boss has you out here like dancin’ monkey; is that true?”

Fffffffffff.

Technically yes?

“It’s even his day off,” Charlie whispered.

Dave wrapped a hand over her face.

“It’s fine,” he said. “It happens. Folks’ve been sick lately. I don’t normally do this kinda thing.”

De Luca’s face said that that was real cute. Real, real cute, honey.

“Well,” he said, “Let’s just say it like this. Where you work don’t gotta be where you train.”

Oh.

Was he offering--?

“If you decide to drop by, tell the guy at the desk Rudy sent you,” De Luca said. “Your kid’s real sweet, Davy. She can come too, lord knows the damn place is a daycare at this point.”

“Thank? You?” Dave stuttered.

“Don’t mention it,” De Luca said.

He left. Dave watched him waltz down the block and wave at the gals collected on the stoop at the end of it and felt a little lightheaded.

“Dad?”

Not right now, champ.

“Dad? Is he famous or somethin’?”

HHHHHHHHHHNG.

Back when Dave had been 14 and scraping the tips of his fingers into callouses on the old guitar he’d found tossed into a dumpster in the Upper West Side, he’d had to compete with the sound of the couple fighting in the apartment next door and with the radio the old man downstairs always had playing on his fire-escape window.

The old man downstairs was a real hard-ass. Always slammed a broom into the ceiling, scaring the shit out of Mom and Dad and sister and auntie. Dave had never seen him not smoking, nor had he ever seen him without suspenders.

The man was a retired plumber, apparently. And while Jim Beam was his main vice, his passion was boxing.

To the tune of chords picked out of an out-of-tune guitar, Dave had listened to tinny commentators oohing and awing over match after match, until finally, when sleep wouldn’t come one night, Dave had snuck out of the room he’d shared with Flora. He’d settled down on the living room couch, next to his old man splayed out in the recliner.

Dad had lifted his eyes slowly his way and told him that he should have been in bed.

Dave had told him that he couldn’t sleep because the couple next door was makin’ up from their daily afternoon argument and Dad had just sighed.

He’d let Dave stay up with him and the TV in the living room had fuzzed and rattled away, making sounds really familiar to Dave at that point.

Boxing was a sport that he had, up until that night, left to his father. But for the lack of anything else to talk about that wouldn’t make his dad look at him with disappointment in his eyes for all that damn music-playin’ and eyeliner, he’d asked who the guy on the screen was.

And that was how he’d learned about Diamond De Luca.

About Kenny Varga. Bert ‘The Albatross’ Kleinfeld.

But there was one guy who Dad had mentioned was his favorite rookie and, now it felt both kind of silly and surreal that the name had been spoken so casually in Dave’s home growing up.

Dad had been puttin’ money on Battlin’ Jack Murdock back when Dave had been a little kid.

He told Dave, disappointedly, after a few weeks of Dave getting up at 12:30 to come out and watch boxing with him that he’d really thought that Murdock was gonna be the next big thing.

Guy was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, Dad had said, shaking his head. But wolves that got too wily got put down and Battlin’ Jack had been found in an alley, bled out in the arms of his reason for fighting.

Dad said it was a fuckin’ shame that Murdock had gone out with a slug in his head.

A fuckin’ shame, he said.

Dave didn’t remember him every saying that Murdock’s reason for fighting was a blind ten-year-old, but the thought was now merged with that memory.

That, in itself, was merged with the memory of Dave’s phone ringing one night was Addie’s name on the Caller ID. Her voice was shaking when she told Dave that the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen had just called her from an unknown number.

He had their baby.

He’d snatched her and Jesse out of the arms of two men looking for girls to be used in businesses Dave didn’t want to think about.

He’d saved them.

The devil had heard their screams when no one else had and he’d come flying out of the dark.

He’d held the girls in the light of a bodega and he’d coached Charlie through typing Addie’s number into his phone and then he’d taken it from there.

Addie was too scared to go meet the devil on her own. Mason hadn’t been around yet and so Dave had thrown on his shoes and had meet her on 46th.

The devil was on 48th, swinging his boots with both girls in his lap.

They were all singing. The devil had pretended like he didn’t know the words to Britney Spears’s ‘Toxic.’

Matt Murdock was under that mask.

Knowing that this whole time, he’d been the one dragging a stick against the fences and bricks of Hell’s Kitchen was almost impossible to digest.

And Dave had worked with him now.

He’d seen that smirk and that notorious jaw unwrapped from its red armor and that didn’t make reconciling the murdered boxer’s son with the man who’d saved his daughter any easier.

Charlie hadn’t remembered him.

She thought that Matt Murdock was a weird fuckin’ dude, and granted, he was a weird fuckin’ dude, but Dave had to say: he was grateful.

Matt Murdock not only brought home his baby, but he’d given Dave purpose in a life that had become consumed by the daily grind.

Matt Murdock had smiled in his direction, never quite into his eyes, and he’d passed along the baton with next to no fight.

Dave wasn’t him.

Dave would never be him.

Matt Murdock wasn’t just some poor murdered boxer’s blind son. He was the product of some serious poverty. Some serious violence. A whole fuckin’ cult induction, if he was to be believed. And Dave wasn’t so sure if he was always to be believed.

But he still appreciated Matt Murdock for what he’d done and what he’d made for this part of the city.

He’d made Daredevil.

And he shared that with Dave.

Dave’s own dad’s approval hadn’t felt like the honor that had come with Matt Murdock’s covered eyes and curled lip slowly relaxing as he’d lifted his face up from Dave’s knees.

He hadn’t been inspecting.

He’d been listening. Dipping his fingers into the blood in Dave’s heart and deciding if he was worth his salt.

Matt Murdock, son of Battlin’ Jack Murdock, was a product of Fogwell’s Gym in the Kitchen.

Diamond De Luca, retired heavyweight, was a product of Fogwell’s Gym.

The stars had aligned. And Dave had stood in their path.

And he wasn’t wasting the chance that they offered him.

Charlie was stoked to be allowed to come to the gym with him. She usually went to Jesse’s house, where Rubes would look after both girls for a few hours.

But De Luca had said that it was okay for her to come along, and so he figured, why not?

Fogwell’s was an institution in the Kitchen. All kids deserved to know their own history.

“I’m gonna fight Fogwell himself,” Charlie announced halfway down the block.

“You will not,” Dave told her. “Because I’m not tryin’ to get thrown out before we even get started here, alright?”

Charlie whined.

He ignored it.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been to the gym. Matt Murdock slipped in and out of it when he was in the city and he’d taken the whole team there once or twice. But it was different to be there in the presence of the daytime crew.

Dave felt very small in their presence.

The whole place was full of people pounding bags and swearing and shouting at kids who were tumbling all over the rows of benches set off to the side of the bags.

It was not what Dave had been expecting.

He told the guy at the front that ‘Rudy’ had recommended that he stop by and got a nod and a wave.

“He’s probably upstairs,” the receptionist said. “Go pick a bag, I’ll give him a buzz.”

Charlie refused to join the kids on the benches because apparently that was ‘only for babies, Dad.’ She wanted to hold the bag.

She was not, in one thousand years, holding the bag.

Dave wrapped her hands and let her go at it first to ‘soften it up’ for him.

De Luca caught him adjusting the demon-child’s thumbs before they ended up at the hospital again and laughed.

“Davy-boy, you made it,” he said.

Dave snapped up straight to attention.

“I did,” he said.

De Luca laughed again.

“Relax, kid,” he said. “Damn, you’re tight wound. Don’t worry, we won’t tell no one you’re sleepin’ with the enemy.”

Ahahahaha.

Please don’t.

These people were jacked. Dave was but a kickboxing instructor.

“Here, bub, lemme see what your pops has got,” De Luca said, shooing Charlie out of the way.

And this was the moment of truth.

De Luca seemed surprised when Dave finally laid off the bag. And Dave couldn’t read his expression for a million bucks.

“Uh?” he tried. “Not good?”

De Luca blinked himself back to earth.

“Oh, no,” he said. “It’s just uh, you fight a little like someone I know.”

Please don’t say a mobster.

“Kid used to live around here; name’s Matt Murdock,” De Luca said. “You know him?”

Did—

Did he know him?

QUICK. Answer the question.

You’re takin’ too long.

He’s gonna—

“S’alright if you don’t,” De Luca said. “I was just sayin’. Kid was like one of my own.”

He—

What?

“Yeah, boy fought like the devil like his daddy before ‘im,” De Luca said. “He’s the only one Fogwell lets call him ‘Grandpa.’ He’s about your age, actually. God, I’m old.”

AHAHAHAHAHA.

Please change the subject.

“You’re not that old,” Dave said. “I think I might have heard the name.”

Charlie looked up at him, baffled at the hedging.

He pleaded with her with his eyes not to say a damn word.

“Yeah, he’s somethin’, left here for San Francisco. Didn’t even say good-bye, the little shit,” De Luca sniffed. “Came back last year all ‘I’m gettin’ married’ and I swear to god, he’s picked up some kid. Just between you and me, pal, the old guard here have been talkin’, and we think that someone missed out on the sex ed talk, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

Oh.

Poor Sam.

He wasn’t even there to scream from the mountaintops that Red was a last resort for him at best.

“I’m just sayin’,” De Luca said with a shrug that spoke far more of supreme irritation than nonchalance, “He coulda just told us. I’m just sayin’.”

Any more ‘just sayin’s’ and Diamond De Luca was gonna go find a wall to bury them in.

“Did you, uh, have any feedback?” Dave blurted out as the guy started mumbling.

“Hm?”

“Feedback,” Dave repeated, waving a gloved hand at the bag.

“Oh. Yeah, loads, kid. You got all the muscles and not a damn lick of memory, here, lemme show you.”

Crisis averted.

Thank god.

D2: hey uh, DD?

SM: DAVE

S2: DAVEEEE

S3: DAVE

SM: what’s up man?

D2: nothing I was just trying to get ahold of DD?

BT: He’s trying to get Kirsten to give up her dreams of an indoor office pond rn. Can I help?

SM: I want an indoor office pond

S3: omg same

D2: uh yeah actually could you just tell him I met a guy named De Luca the other day and he might want to give him a call?

BT: de Luca?

D2: yeah

BT: okay sure thing

D2: thanks

BT: I’ll go see if I can get a word in edgewise.

SM: good fucking luck

S2: I hate fish

S3: leave this place and never return

S2: I HATE FISH

DD: WHAT

SM: oh shit that was quick

D2: oh. I was just saying that I met Diamond De Luca the other day?

SM: ?? Who’s that?

DD: oh no

S2: ??????????????

DP (´｡✪ω✪｡´): who the fuck is that?

DD: are you still with him?

D2: no?

D2: he caught me out fliering and invited me to Fogwell’s

D2: and when I got there he mentioned my stance was like yours and he uh

D2: got a little distracted

DD: what kind of distracted?

D2: He thinks Sam’s your bastard kid

BT: GODDAMNIT

DD: FOR FUCKS SAKE

BT: First Mrs. Jones, now this guy?? TEACH.

DD: These people have zero faith in me I swear to god.

DD: like come ON man. I did sex ed in the same class as Angie he knows I’m too catholic for that shit

DP (´｡✪ω✪｡´): I looked this man up and he looks like an Italian nate with less hair

SM: wh

DP (´｡✪ω✪｡´): okay you’re right he looks nothing like nate

SM: that

SM: that’s not even slightly helpful, wade, thanks not at all. Hey who’s angie?

DD: long story. Rudy’s daughter

S2: RED YOU FUCKED A BOXERS DAUGHTER?? That’s a million dollar baby man

DD: I

DD: what?

DD: no? Why would I fuck angie she’s like my sister?

S2: oh nvm

SM: 😬😬😬

S3: I am confused ❤

D2: you should probably call him, friend

DD: on it. thanks for the notice

DD: hey what’s your fuckin name again?

S2: f

S3: f

SM: f

D2: It’s Ansel

DD: Adams?

D2: not the photographer. Ansel West.

SM: WEST

S2: OMG

S3: guys don’t

SM: I BET YOURE A SUNSET DAVE

S2: YOU EVER FEEL CALLED TO THE PRAIRIE DAVE???

SM: YOU’RE A&W, DAVE!!

S2: ROOT BEER ROOT BEER

D2: ah yes. Middle school. I remember this feeling.

Dave laid his phone on his chest and stared back up at the ceiling.

It was never dull, this new life he’d settled into.

He said a prayer for Murdock and rolled onto his side.

It was still his goddamn couch.

#fic #inimitable verse #ficlet #team red

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nighting-gale17 · 4 years

Text

im dyin’ (oh santa fe...)

TW: (very) vague suicidal references

Also read Here on AO3!!!!

Painting was the only thing he could do right now.

His eyes stayed fastened on the swirling colors gently brushed across the canvas, losing himself in the art. It calmed his racing mind and pounding heart better than anything or anyone else would have been able to even try (that was a lie—soft pink lips, firm hands, lean body… but he couldn’t). If he stopped, if he let his brain think too much, then all he would think about was how helpless we was and how there wasn’t anything he could do to help Crutchie, or the rest of the newsies, and those kids—

Like he said. If he painted, he didn’t think.

Jack let out a frustrated huff and stepped back from the canvas, eyeing his work critically. It was coming along alright, he supposed, though he might’ve been a little too generous with the purple. If he added some pink, though, it would set it off nicely with the sunset in the background…

Hours were lost to him as he painted in the back of Miss Medda’s theatre. The splatters of paint on his skin distracted from the still aching bruises from the fight. Each careful stroke of the brush across the canvas silenced any thought that tried to form in his mind. It was therapeutic, in a way, he supposed. It gave him control over something when he had never felt more helpless in his life and he enjoyed the way his body began to relax as he lost himself in his work.

“Jack? Postage for Jack Kelly?”

Jack momentarily zoned back in to the rest of the world, glancing over his shoulder at the young postage boy that had walked into the back of the theatre. “Yeah, that’d be me.” he said, putting his paint brush back in the paint cup and reaching out to the boy. “Thanks.”

The boy nodded and waved as he handed him the letter and then took off.

Jack frowned down at the letter, feeling dread start to build up in the pit of his stomach as he looked at it. His name was scrawled across the top is messy, shaky handwriting—chicken-scratch, he had used to tease Crutchie—but it was the smeared bloodstain on the edge that caught his attention.

Dear Jack,

Greetings from the Refuge. How are you? I’m okay. Guess I wasn’t much help yesterday. Snyder soaked me real good with my crutch. Oh, yeah, Jack, this is Crutchie, by the way. These here guards, they is rude. They say jump, boy, you jump or you’re screwed. But the food ain’t so bad, least so far, ‘cause so far they ain’t brung us no food. Ha. Ha.

I miss the rooftop. Sleepin’ right out in the open, in your penthouse in the sky. There’s a cool breeze blowin’ even in July. Anyway, so, guess what? There’s a secret escape plan I got. Tie a sheet to the bed, toss the end out the window, climb down, then take off like a shot! Maybe though, not tonight. I ain’t slept and my leg still ain’t right. Hey, but Pulitzer, he’s goin’ down! And then, Jack, I was thinking we might just go like you was saying. Where it’s clean, and green and pretty, with no buildings in your way, and you’re ridin’ palominos every day. Once that train makes—

Damn this place. I’ll be fine, Jack, good as new. But there’s one thing I need you to do. On the rooftop, you said, that a family looks out for each other. So you tell all the fellas for me to protect one another.

The end.

Your friend,

Your best friend.

Your brother,

Crutchie

God damnit.

Jack took a deep breath as he carefully folded up Crutchie’s letter with shaky hands. Somehow, the letter hit his heart almost as hard as it did when he tried to go see him last night. The bloody and bruised up silhouette of him in the dark, curled up on the top bunk just trying to breath through the pain—

He couldn’t even make it to the window.

And it was all Jack’s fault. He never should have tried to kid himself that he could do something that would help the people he loved—it always backfired on him. Apparently, his parents and siblings hadn't been enough proof of that. Tears burned in his eyes and he sniffed, blinking them away and wiping at his cheeks with his hand. Crutchie might die in that—that awful place, and Jack couldn’t do a single damned thing about it.

“Jack?”

Jack quickly shoved the letter into his apron pocket, quickly brushing the back of his hand over his cheeks to get rid of any tears. He glanced up slightly from the corner of his eye as Miss Medda approached him, keeping most of his attention to the ground.

“Here’s everything I owe you for the first backdrop.” She told him, holding out a pink envelope with a gentle smile on her face. She turned and gestured toward the backdrop he was currently working on, a soft look of awe on her face that he never was able to understand. “Plus this one. And even a little something extra,” Miss Medda continued, turning back to him with that same smile. “Just account’a because I’m gonna miss you so.”

“Miss Medda,” Jack protested. “I—”

“Jack.” Miss Medda cut him off, a vaguely disappointed look on her face, as if he was doing something wrong by refusing to take her payment. She held out the pink envelope to him again expectantly.

He took it from her slowly, unable to meet her eyes as his fingers slid over the fine, pink parchment. “You’re a gem.” he said when he was finally able to speak past the lump of emotion in his throat, giving her a strained smile.

“Just tell me you’re goin’ somewhere,” Miss Medda sighed softly as Jack dropped the envelope in his apron pocket. “not running away.”

Jack lifted his eyes up to glance at her and then scoffed. “Does it matter?” He brushed past her, his eyes lingering on his almost finished painting. He told everyone it was of Santa Fe—of somewhere nicer, far, far away from the claustrophobic presence of New York. And it wasn’t a lie. But the way he planned on getting there—well, money wasn’t going to help him get there. He just wished he had the courage to finally take the dive and leave this dump behind.

“When you go somewhere and it turns out not to be the right place, you can always go somewhere else.” Miss Medda was continuing, pulling Jack out of his thoughts. “But if you’re running away, nowhere is ever the right place.” She walked up toward him, putting her hand on his shoulder and squeezing it comfortingly.

Jack dropped his gaze and averted his eyes, trying not to show just how much of Miss Medda’s words struck. He knew she was right. He knew he was running away, like a coward, but it was all he wanted to do, as selfish as it is. Wanted to run away to Santa Fe, where he could be free of hunger, pain, the misery of everything in this awful—

“Jack! How ‘bout lettin’ a pal know you’re alive?”

Jack’s head jerked up so fast his neck protested the action, making him wince as the ache from his injuries made themselves known again. Davey was there (of course he was, he never should have shown him this place) on the catwalk, staring down at him with that infatuating grin before bolting away.

“Why don’t I leave you with your friend?” Miss Medda said, a knowing look on her face as she patted his cheek gently and walked away.

“Where did you go?” Davey asked as he rounded the corner, almost out of breath. “We couldn’t find ya!”

“You ever think I didn’t wanna be found?” Jack retorted, bitterness coating his words as he walked forward and grabbed one of his paint brushes out of the cup, intent on finishing what he started. And maybe if he ignored him, Davey would get the hint and leave him alone. Though, a tiny part of him hoped he might stay.

“Hey, is that a real place?” Davey asked suddenly, gesturing with the newspaper he was holding in his hand to the backdrop Jack was currently painting. “That Santa Fe?”

Jack ignored him, trying ti hide the way his heart race ticked up at the thought by bending his head and dipping his paint brush in the soft pink paint. He knew Davey was just talking about the actual Santa Fe, way down there in Mexico where the skies were clear and the stars shone at night. But Jack had stopped thinking about Santa Fe as an actual, physical place a long, long time ago.

“Hey, did you see the papes?” Davey tried again when Jack continued to work on his painting, appearing in the corner of Jack’s eye and waving the paper in his hand around. “We are front page news, above the fold!” He unfolded the paper, practically shoving it under Jack’s nose. “Oh, yes. Above. The fold.”

Davey grinned at him as Jack looked up, barely giving the paper a glance as he forced Davey backward so he could reach the other side of his painting. “Good for you.” he muttered before ducking his head down to focus on the strokes of the brush across the canvas.

“Everyone wants to meet the famous Jack Kelly!” Davey went on, brushing his hand across Jack’s shoulder and leaving goosebumps in his wake. He paced across the floor behind Jack, his footsteps an annoying distraction from his painting. “Even Spot Conlon sent over a kid just to say, ‘Next event, you can count on Brooklyn.’ How about that?”

Jack let out a frustrated breath, glancing over at Davey before he returned to swap out his paint brush. “We got stomped into the ground.”

“Yeah, they got us this time. I’ll grant you that.” Davey acknowledged, though there was a tone of confusion in his voice. “But we took round one, and with press like this, our fight is far from over.”

“Every newsie who could walk was out there this morning, selling papes like the strike never even happened.” Jack shot back, finally turning in his squatted position to level Davey with a frustrated look. He rose back to his feet, intent on getting back to his painting and just wishing Davey would get the hint and go away.

“And I was right out there with them.” Davey said hurriedly, putting his hand out and forcing Jack to stay in place. “If I don't sell papes, my folks don’t eat.”

“Save your breath.” Jack snapped, his irritation finally getting the best of him. “I get it. It’s hopeless.”

“But then I saw this look on Wiesel’s face!” Davey continued, spinning on his heel as Jack brushed past him to return to his painting. “He was actually nervous and I realized this isn’t over. We got ‘em worried. Really worried.” Davey’s finger gently pressed on the underside of Jack’s jaw and forced his head up to look at him and his way too earnest expression. “And I walked away. Lots of other kids did too. And that is what you call a beginning.”

Jack held his gaze, forgetting for a second how to breathe as he looked into those wide brown eyes. He didn't realize it before, but there was an underlying concern in his eyes for him as well, mostly hidden by his excitement and hope over the strike. But it was still there. And damn, if Jack couldn't ever remember the last time someone other than Miss Medda or Crutchie looked at him with worry like that.

The finger under his jaw brushed up his cheek bone, brushing lightly against the skin and drawing a shuddering breath out of Jack. The soft fingers, those of a well learned man, a contrast to the abused, rough callouses Jack had, slowly stroked over the skin. Davey’s eyes were soft and bright as he opened his mouth to say something, but then the moment was broken by the too loud, high pitched sound of a child.

“There he is, just like I said!”

Jack looked over his shoulder and scowled, glaring up at the catwalk where Davey’s little brother was pointing at him with Katherine at his side. “For cryin’ out loud,” He growled, standing on his feet and clutching his paint brush tighter in his hand as he stormed over to where the rest of his paints were. “Where’s a fella gotta go to get away from you people?”

“There’s no escapin’ us, pal.” Davey followed him, voice slightly teasing, their moment forgotten. “We’re inevitable.”

Jack thinks of Santa Fe a little more wistfully. He ignored the three of them as they chattered off to the side, trying his hardest to escape back into that numbing, silent place painting always gave him refuge in. But, of course, this was practically impossible considering the tension in his shoulders from the presence of the others. He just wanted to be alone. Why wouldn’t they just go away?

He turned back to his paints as he ran out of the blues, once again wishing for one of those nice, small palettes to keep his paints on. He spotted Katherine slowly walking towards him and gave her a glance as he headed towards his paints. “Word is, you wrote a great story.”

“Hey, you look like hell.” Katherine said, a deep frown on her face as she walked toward him. Jack saw her raise her hand from the corner of his eye as he bent forward to get his paints, felt himself tensing slightly at the thought of her touch, but thankfully, she seemed to think twice about it and dropped her hand.

“Hey, Jack, where’s that supposed to be?” Les piped up, bouncing on top of a box of his painting supplies and making Jack grimace.

“It’s Santa Fe,” Davey answered for him when Jack refused to speak, busying himself with the paints by his feet.

“Oh, I gotta tell you, Jack. This, ‘Go West, young man!’ routine is getting tired.” Katherine told him, eyeing his painting critically when he sat up and glared at her.

“Tired?” Jack echoed, standing back on to his feet with a sour taste in his mouth. “Tired? Ya know, for a blacklisted reporter, you sure got a lot of nerve sayin’ stuff you don’t kno’ nothin’ about.”

“How did you know I got blacklisted?” Katherine frowned, further irritating Jack with just how unfazed she seemed to be by his comments.

“I ain’t an idiot.” he snapped. “Despite what you might think.”

“Can we table the palaver and get back to business?” Les interrupted, exasperation in his voice in a way only a child as young as Les could achieve. “Will Medda let us have the theater?”

“It’s what I been tryin’ to tell ya!” Davey left his brother’s side, walking up to Jack with that all-too earnest look on his face again. “We wanna hold a rally, a citywide meeting where every newsie gets a say and a vote. And we do it after working hours so no one loses a day’s pay. Smart?”

Jack looked up at that earnest face and had to look away. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Smart enough to get you committed to a padded room.”

“The guy who paints places he’s never seen is calling us crazy?” Katherine scoffed, gesturing towards his unfinished backdrop.

Jack froze at her words, anger boiling through his veins so violently he had to take a deep breath before he started to speak. “You wanna see a place I seen, huh?” he asked, glaring at her as he brushed past Davey and threw his paintbrushes onto the ground. The violent clatter caused Katherine to flinch, startled, but Jack couldn’t bring himself to care, couldn’t think past the anger and hate and guilt mixing together in his chest. “How about this?” He marched towards the backdrop and shoved it around, turning it so the sketch he’d drawn on the other side was visible.

It was nothing but harsh black strokes, drawn when he first got here and he needed an outlet for the anger and fear writhing through his veins, demanding to be released. The faceless newsies—just children, they were only kids—being stomped on, crushed, by the Pulitzer giant.

“Newsie Square, thanks to my big mouth, filled to overflowing with failure.” he spat the words out like they were poison, that familiar anger swirling in his chest every time he looked at the cartoon. “Kids hurt! Others arrested!”

“Lighten up. No one died.” Davey snapped at him.

Jack turned to face him, shocked, unable to believe what he had just said. “Oh, is that what you’re aimin’ for?” As he spoke, he could already tell that Davey was regretting his words but Jack was past the point of caring. “No, no, go on!” he shouted, waving his hand in the air. “Call me a coward! You call me a quitter. Ain’t no way I’m puttin’ them kids back in danger.”

“We’re doing something that's never been done before!” Davey shot back desperately. “How could that not be dangerous?”

Jack wanted to scream. Why didn’t Davey and Katherine understand that there were real consequences to what they were doing? That there were things worse than death that could be forced on them. He worked his jaw, taking a deep breath before he spoke, his voice quieter now. “Specs brung me a note from Crutchie at the Refuge. I tried to go see him last night. I went up the fire escape. They busted him up so bad, he couldn’t even come to the window.” He squeezed his eyes shut as the vision of Crutchie’s bloodied silhouette on that bed flashed in his head. “Now what if he don’t make it, huh?” he asked tearfully, opening his eyes back up, uncaring of the shine he knew they had. He pointed accusingly with a shaking hand at Davey as the other boy looked away. “Are you—Are you willin’ to shoulder that? For what, half a penny a pape?”

“It’s not about pennies, Jack!” Davey yelled, his face starting to turn red from a mixture of frustration and something else in his eyes. “You said it yourself.” he lowered his voice as he walked closer to Jack, who only turned away and wiped at his face with his hand. “My family wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in if my father had a union. This is a fight we have to win!”

“If I wanted a sermon, I would show up to church.” Jack snarled, stepping forward and getting into Davey’s face until they were only a breath apart. “None of you get it! The consequences of continuing this fight are greater than any reward that could come out of it.”

“Jack, you’re being ridiculous.” Katherine tried to start, but Jack cut her off with a glare.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.” He scowled, the anger still simmering in his veins. “None of you do! You all came from nice, stable families—still got a mam and pops you can go runnin’ home to. Well not all of us got somethin’ that nice! Some of us learned about the real world a lot sooner!” he shouted.

Silence met his words and Jack forced himself to take a step back, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Yeah, those kids might not have died. But they were taken to the Refuge. And I doubt there’s a hell worse than that place.”

“Jack, please—” Davey tried again.

“No!” Jack snapped, lifting his gaze to glare at the other man, ignoring the hurt shining in those eyes. “Those kids are in there because of me. Crutchie, is in there because’a me, and he might be dying. Yous can do whatever ya want. But leave me outta’ it.”

He walked past Davey, intent on finishing his painting for Miss Medda like he had promised and then getting the hell out of there to figure out how to save Crutchie. But Davey grabbed a hold of his arm before he could walk past, his grip tight on his bicep. “Jack.” he said quietly, but Jack refused to look up. “What happened at the Refuge to you?”

Jack felt his entire body stiffen at the question. Flashes of pain and beatings and crying brothers and sisters flipped through his mind. He bit the inside of his cheek long enough until he tasted blood before he spoke. “That ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.” He ripped his arm from Davey’s grip, ignoring the way he immediately longed for the touch after it was gone.

Davey was still yelling his name, desperately, lost in the cacophony of voices as Katherine and Les’ joined in with him. But Jack ignored them, taking off away from the theatre. He didn’t know where he was going. All he knew was he needed out. He needed a plan, he needed to rescue Crutchie.

Santa Fe… One day…

#newsies #newsies the musical #jack kelly #david jacobs #les jacobs #katherine plumber #this is long #whoops #first fic #new to the fandom #be nice please :)))#we stan jack kelly #i have *feelings* about this scene #and others concerning jack #i love him sm #cait works

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pinetwiins · 6 years

Text

A Drabble for Verse!Beta; Yako’s death and Dark!Ford’s Origin story.

Mabel & Stanley & Stanford / Dark Ford - (Me) @pinetwiins

Neuro + Yako @hellsgreatestdetective

Bill Cipher (DAPPER) @joinwithmekid

Please note - there is death in this thing, its long and also includes an old man dying from a heart attack.

Neuro

Yako is thrown onto the sofa but her reflexes seem... off. She does not roll to avoid and hits the sofa hard. Neuro notices and isn't grinning so much. "What Bill chooses to do with the relationship I shall not protest again."

StanfordPines

wait what?? He is also very worried over yako.

DAPPER (Bill)

Bill also notices. “Off day, Foodie?”

Neuro

Neuro waits for Yako to get up. She seems completely still for several moments before she suddenly moves, almost baffled at where she is. It's very not Yako behaviour.

StanfordPines

“hey... sweetheart... are you okay?”

Yako

"I'm sorry. I kind of blacked out there, what happened?" She tries to laugh it off, but she can't even laugh right. What the hell? "Maybe I was more badly hurt than I thought, but the medics had checked for injuries and said I was doing fine."

StanfordPines

he bites his lip and walked over to stand next to the couch. “perhaps... perhaps they overlooked something...?” He is very worried.

Yako

"I can't remember hitting my head at any point. Maybe I'm just tired. I should head to be-" She seems to have forgotten what she was saying.

StanfordPines

he feels his heart rate picking up.... he’s.... he’s scared...

Neuro

Neuro snaps a finger in front of her. She does not react for several moments.

DAPPER (Bill)

Bill’s not shocked or worried at all, he just watches. He’s seen this happen hundreds of times - not exactly like this, but generally speaking. Death means nothing to him. Actually, he just giggles a bit at the fact she forgot what she was saying. “Yep, you should go sleep kid! Actually, sleep here. You’ll forget what you’re doing on the way to bed, don’t want that!”

Yako

"That's- that's a good idea. Thank you Will." She kind of just- shuts down there. She doesn't have the energy to be nervous about her own condition. Neuro looks worried for once.

DAPPER (bill)

“It’s Bill! Try and remember when you wake up!” He fixes his hair. “Don’t worry so much guys, she’s fine for now!”

StanfordPines

“Ya-Yako...? Heh... sweetheart, come on, you should sleep in bed...” he’s really scared, he’s freaking out right now.

Neuro

"...For now, you just said. So you know what's happening."

Yako

Yako is already fast asleep, barely breathing.

DAPPER (Bill)

“Course I do! I’ve seen this more times than there are grains of sand on Earth.” He’s still pretty nonchalant.

StanfordPines

”Bill....” he swallowed hard and kneels down, taking her hand. “Hey, yo-you’ll be okay... you’ll see... we’ll... we’ll go on an adventure, on the stan o war...” his voice cracks as he try’s not to show his panic.

Neuro

"So it's death?" Truthfully, he did not expect it so suddenly and so... lamely. "But why now of all times?"

August 3, 2018

Yako

"Yeah... tomorrow..." She mumbles vaguely to herself, curling into her side. She can feel herself drifting, smiling in her sleep.

DAPPER (Bill)

“Dying but not dying isn’t natural for fragile meatsacks. All that death’s finally catching up to her. She’s still got some time, but this is probably the gentlest path of it happening I foresaw, so you should probably not wake her up. Don’t want Neuri’s human to suffer, do ya?”

Neuro

"Ah... all those instances. The universe is reclaiming it's debt. Shame... she was a good detective." He's not necessarily angry, rather disappointed. Ghosts still existed, no? Perhaps she would return as one. He could be hopeful that god would give him this one mercy. "I suppose it's only right we look for the rest of her family."

StanfordPines

”Stanley.... oh gosh Stanley... Yako was the only one other than the kids keeping him sane and-“ not wanting to kill himself...

Yako

Yako just sighs in her sleep, waking up again. She looks annoyed."Too loud." She announces puffing out her cheeks and getting up. She does not seem to recognise anyone.

DAPPER (Bill)

“Well, so much for the gentle one!” He shrugs, leaning back in his seat.

StanfordPines

to his knowledge he hadn’t been speaking very loudly... he put on a forced watery smile. “So Sorry Yako, do try and sleep again.” He murmured.

Yako

"Dun know 'ow ya know ma name Mister but A ain't sleepin' 'ere." She's just sulking. Strangely seems more energetic than before. "Ya got food?"

StanfordPines

”Um... Yako... I’m your Grandfather... well adopted... tell me... how old are you? You seem to have memory’s missing...”where did this energy come from?

Yako

~"Whaaaaa ya arna grandda 'e's got a mullet and a silly voice. A can copy it!" She clears her voice. "Hey kids and welcome to the MYSTERY SHACK!" She poses dramatically but yelps at her own arm, rubbing it. "Though 'e's been sore recently, 'e 'urt 'is back." She pauses at the question then raises nine fingers, pausing, and adding another. "Ten in three days! We're gonna fix the roof an' 'ave a party!"

StanfordPines

he laughs at the imitation. “I’m his twin brother... Stanley is upstairs he will be down-“ he’s cut off by the creeking of the stairs.

Yako

She gasps really dramatically

StanleyPines

”hey! Pointdexter! I hear someone copying me! Hah! Is that Yako at it again?”He gets to the bottom of the stairs and walks into the room.

Yako

"E 'as a twin!? Awesome! Are ya psychic! Grandda ya never said ya had a twin!"

DAPPER (Bill)

Bill’s just gonna watch this all play out. He’s not messing with time or what’s supposed to happen, he doesn’t care enough to. Actually he would if Neuri wanted him to do something but that’d be difficult to accomplish at this point of the death process.

Neuro

Neuro's going to let Yako spend her last moments with her family. As much as he would like to undo it... even he follows a few of the rules.

StanleyPines

He blinks and looks at her. “Hey Peanut... are you okay? I’m pretty sure I told you about that... the lab under the house?”

Yako

She gasps even louder

StanfordPines

”I’m- im sorry Stan...” he whispers as he stands next to him. “She’s dying...”

Yako

"A LAB!?!?" She is flapping her arms in excitement. "Grandda's so cool! Can A see. A'm gonna see!" She's up like a lightning bolt trying to find the door.

StanleyPines

”the hell you on about?” He hissed back not wanting to believe him. “Hey! Sweetheart! You can look later! Come back in here!”

Yako

~"But A wanna solve the mystery shack mystery!" She's persistent but sulks back when he calls her forward. "When did ya get so grey? Did ya dye ya hair by accident? A thought we were fixin' the roof today?"

StanleyPines

”from what I can see sweetie, is that ya memories are being wonky, going from past to future, but no matter, come sit with me on the couch.””you know how I know? Because you’re not currently 10 years old.”

Yako

"Don' give me science speak secret scientist A shall uncover ya yet!" She announces proudly, marching forward. "Course A'm not ten A'm nine silly." She plops herself onto the couch next to him, kicking her feet back and forth. "But ma legs really 'urt they're cold!"

StanleyPines

“....lie against me sweetie...”his voice is shaking slightly

Yako

"Sure thing!" She does just that and... seems to fall asleep for the longest time. She is icy to the touch. Her breathing is shallow, and she is barely moving at all. Then she seems to jump awake suddenly, rubbing her head. "Just a bad dream..." She looks around "This isn't my office?"

StanleyPines

“....no, it’s the shack sweetheart.... you okay?”

Yako

She seems startled by the man and jumps away from him, blinking in surprise."I'm terribly sorry sir, I do not know how I got here."

StanleyPines

”Peanut? Are you okay?”

Yako

"P-pardon? Do I know you, sir? As far as I'm aware I just bought my office in London yesterday how on earth did I get here?" She gestures vaguely to the entire building.

StanleyPines

“ya memories are being wackie... ya 25 years old Yako, your in the mystery Shack and I’m ya adopted grandpa.”he wonders how many times he’ll have ya repeat that...

Yako

"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but you must be mistaken. I haven't even turned twenty-one and... my grandfather passed away some time ago. Look if you're trying to con me into some sort of vacuuming business I'm not interested I am perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself and how the hell do you know my name?"

StanleyPines

he laughs at that, his signature laugh. “I used ta sell vacuums.... I’m telling the truth Peanut. A car knocked ya over sweetie, I was fine, just a concussion and a back that now won’t stop giving out on me.”

Yako

"Look, sir, I don't like this game your playing." She responds, a warning tone to her voice. "But if Dylan sent you over you can kindly tell him that the next time he bothers he his messenger boy is getting a bullet to the head, understand?" She keeps rubbing at her eyes, as though she's tired and she is, trying not to yawn in front of the threat. "And he can keep his murder sprees the hell away from me." She does end up yawning and hates herself for it.

DAPPER (Bill)

Bill appears to be thoroughly amused by this, a smirk on his face as he watches the death play out. To the untrained (and maybe even the trained) eye, he looks like the heartless dick he’s proclaimed himself to be. Beneath that, though, is something entirely different. His well constructed wall of assholery hides a small, grieving voice. He doesn’t care a lot about Yako. She was just another fleshbag about to die. The most important she’d become to him is his boyfriends human. Even so, there are internal tears behind the laugh of amusement he lets out, tears that no one can see or hear. Why, you ask? Why is he feeling this way? He’d never admit it out loud, but this reminds him of the death of his only friend. The death that originally set him off on the path of rejecting reality, the death that eventually caused him to destroy his dimension out of his own denial. Stan’s reaction to this situation.. well, it reminds him of his own. Absolute denial, down to the very end until it’s too late. He wants to tell Stan to tell her goodbye while he still could, but he says nothing, staying silent for the most part aside from the occasional laugh.

StanleyPines

“who the fuck is Dylan?” He grumbled. He didn’t like this, he wants someone to convince her... plus he hasn’t changed that much....

Yako

"You should know he bloody well runs the city god down mobster bastard almost killed me yesterday I swear his aim's improving." She whines more to herself than others, slumping down on the sofa. "Damn, I'm tired.Talk about a shitty start to a shitty day." She tries to rub away the exhaustion but her hand stops midway through reaching for her face. It then slumps back down. Her mumbling falls silent.

StanleyPines

his heart rate picks up, he’s still denying it but it’s getting really clear something is really wrong.

Yako

"I think I saw my grandda today. I know it must be a hallucation, doctor, I've seen lots of them recently. People that aren't there, people that have died or are not real at all. How am I supposed to deal with it?" She leans into the sofa, then lies down on it. "But I'm certain I saw him. He was older and greyer but he had these two kids with him. Mason and Mabel. Yes... like the Gleefuls, but what am I supposed to do? Do I just pretend I haven't seen it at all?"

StanleyPines

”ya really must be hallucinating if ya think I’m a doctor Peanut.”

Yako

"Oh ha ha, real funny. Just don't tell the Gleefuls, I don't want any more canon fodder for Stanford to creep around like the gremlin he is." She grumbles, scratching at her neck. Her skin appears to be crumbling away. "I'm going to try something, just to be sure it's a hallucination. See it was in a mirror in the manor up in the attic. Nothing special about it, but if I can confirm I can't walk through it I should be fine. But if I can... if I can I get to see my grandda again, right?"

DAPPER (Bill)

Yep, Bill laughs some more. The exact opposite of his internal emotions. “You know, I’m enjoying this one far more than the one you all just prevented!”

StanleyPines

He kneels down next to the sofa and strokes her hair. “Of course ya can sweetheart.... he’d love ya see ya...”

Yako

"Yep. I'm going to give it a shot today!" She grins up at the man. It slowly fades still and her eyes slide shut. The skin is clearly paling and crumbling away, disappearing like ash. When she next opens her eyes she looks exhausted. "Hey grandda what's up?"

StanleyPines

he gives a watery laugh, eyes watering... “ya dying pumpkin... ya skin is ash and I’m loosing ya by the minute...” the tears started to fall.”Ya memory has even been through ya deaths from start to now...”His chest was hurting, burning, but he ignored it.

Yako

"Oh." She begins to chuckle. "Out of all the things that would kill me this does it. Talk about a rip off I want a refund." Part of her arm crackles and disappears. She reaches her spare arm out to ruffle his hair. "Hey there don't look so glum you think death will stop my nagging. I'm like a puppy, you can't be rid of me. I'll find a way." She laughs this time. She's sure this is how Neuro almost died, but she doesn't have a back up plan. She didn't expect this at all. Her legs begin to disintergrate. "You'd think they'd have the decency to leave a body this time"

StanleyPines

“....I also think I’m having a heart attack....” he murmured softly face scrunched up in pain...

Yako

"Well shit we need to call a doctor." She uses the last of her strength to grab the phone but Neuro grabs it before her, dialling in the number for an ambulance.

StanleyPines

he could already feel his limbs growing numb/cold. “Hah... I think it’s too late.” He said with a strained smile, his breathing short.

StanfordPines

“Stanley...?!” Ford finally noticed something wrong.

Yako

"Damn it this is supposed to be my dramatic farewell I'll see you in hell moment don't you ruin it by dying first." Oh great now she's crying you were supposed to be fine. "I'm going ahead you bastard. You get to a hospital and get better so I can haunt your ass."

DAPPER (Bill)

Bill didn’t see the heart attack coming, that’s an update. And a clear example of the fact Bill can’t see everything. Huh, this’ll go well.

Neuro

"Yes we appear to have a man at the Mystery Shack in Gravity Falls having a heart attack literally right now."

StanleyPines

He shakily kisses her forehead. “I have a feeling that the universe won’t survive for long...”

StanfordPines

Ford grabbed his sholder, wishing there was something he could do. “No-no-no-no-NO!” He practically shouted.

Yako

Where he kisses the forehead it begins to crumble. She's trying to stay awake but it's failing to work."Asshole universe."

StanleyPines

”see ya later sweet pea...” he murmured as he felt himself grow weak.

Yako

Her body disintergrates into nothing before them all, leaving behind only the bones of a young child probably eight years old with a cracked skull before that too disappears

DAPPER (Bill)

To keep his mind off feelings he makes a mental note to use this idea in his future disturbing plans.

StanleyPines

“Heh... sorry point dexter... seems my heart can’t take it any more...” He wheezed.

StanfordPines

”Stanley..? Stanley! No!” But it was too late and he was holding his twins body in his arms.... He hugs him close... before a cry of grief rips through him.... he lost two people of his family today... his mind can’t take it....

DAPPER (Bill)

Bills still just watching. He can feel Ford’s sanity ripping away from him- this is also unexpected, but a pleasant form of unexpected for him. He isn’t going to stop it or offer any form of emotional help. This was going to happen eventually anyways.

Neuro

Neuro slowly puts the phone down. He finds himself strongly disliking this universe and joins by Bill's side, offering him a worrisome glance for his reaction earlier.

Dark!Ford

His head shoots up and letting go of his brother he sprints from the room, to the lab door and punches in the code.... he didn’t care for what happened now... he would find Yako.... he would- he would.... HE WAS GOING TO REBUILD THAT PORTAL.

Neuro

"We should leave before he traps us in his destruction."

DAPPER (Bill)

Bill just nods. Yeah, he can see what's gonna happen. "I'm ready when you are, Neuri! Wow, that was a show!"

Neuro

Neuro just grabs Bill by the hand and morphs them out of the danger zone back into the Alpha world.

Dark!Ford

Ford doesn’t stop to take a break. Fiddleford has tried but he ended up throwing a spanner at his head and then breaking down when the man ran away from him. It took him a full week of no sleep or eating to complete the portal once again from scratch and from memory... it was finished. A wild grin with wild eyes looked at the portal... and pulled the leaver.The ground shook and he chuckled slightly... which turned into a laugh and then a blown out cackle as the portal switched fully on.

Dark!Ford

Grabbing his bag, coat and already dressed in his portal clothes, he waited for it to fully open... screw weirdmagedon... he didn’t give a flying fuck anymore.

Dark!Ford

He steps through the portal... First stop, Rick Sanchez... then he would decide from there...

SixerToday at 1:37 AM Time stamp (started at 11:43pm British Summer Time)

-end of Rp- -that universe is dead lol- The Portal destroyed that world, the void ended up consuming it. There was no weirdmagedon as it backfired. Stanford is too far gone to care, but deep in his mind, he is consumed with guilt.

#drabble #discord #hellsgreatestdetective #V: Beta #beta:stanley #beta:stanford #this is what happens when you write at midnight #tw: death #tw: heart attack

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theliterateape · 3 years

Text

Loony

by Paul Teodo & Tom Myers

He awoke in a panic with a piss boner bursting through his boxers. He sprung from his bed, legs crossed, praying to God to help him make it in time. He limped into the bathroom, struggled to remove his underpants, aimed clumsily, and let it rip; forgetfully, leaving the door wide open. His stream was that of a young, inexperienced marksman; strong, but with a mind of its own. Bright yellow urine shot into and around the toilet bowl, echoing down the adjacent hallway. He managed to spray the wall, the vanity, and the flamingo’d shower curtain; his nocturnal back-up making a mess of it all. He stood, trancelike, indifferent to his poor aim, relieving himself like an untrained puppy.

The rank smell permeated the tiny space, announcing last night’s meal, which included copious servings of asparagus.

He was 12.

“Patrick! Praise God, what are ya’ doin’ there?” His mother’s shrill voice, screeching like a hawk, rose over the downpour of his urgent elimination. Her hair, a tangled mess woven amongst a cadre of fat curlers, a fag dangling from her cracked ruby lips, and a stained blue robe wrapped around her bony body.

He turned, startled, mid-stream, redirecting his flow, now pissing into the hall, where his mother stood puffing away.

“Patrick!” She grabbed him by his hair. “For shite sake. You’ve wee’d on your mam. You’ve run astray, my God; you don’t know what you’re doin’.” She pinched his cheek. “Wake up, lad!”

His mam’s intervention was for naught. He casually finished his business and passed a toot to boot, pulling up his boxers as if he’d just gotten done, in a totally civil fashion, browsing through the Sunday paper while performing his morning ritual.

“Come here, dear.” She moved carefully towards her boy, her feet sheathed with once furry slippers that had spent far too many a year encasing her bunion-covered feet. She drew her son into her arms, taking great pains to avoid his still-stiff organ. She released him. “This has to stop,” she mumbled, crossing herself. “Sweet Jesus,” she looked up and whispered to the bathroom ceiling,“give me a wee bit of direction here.”

“Mam!” Patrick pushed her away, hard on finally relenting, suddenly aware of the yellow rivulets decorating the toilet, the wall, and the flamingos; slammed into the here and now, looking for answers to a question he did not understand. “What are ya’ doin’, Mam, standing there all daft like I committed a crime!”

“What am I doin’?” Hands planted on her hips. “I’m takin’ care of me boy! My ‘pissin’ all over the house’, asparagus-eatin’, 12-year-old boy!”

In an awkward silence Paddy and his mam struggled to avoid each other’s gaze. Only the rattling fan broke the tension in the tiny, fermenting space. Tears welled in Paddy’s gray-green eyes. His red bed-head hair shot sideways from his skull, creating a fiery halo around his freckled face. “I’m sorry, Mam! I am.”

“It’s got to stop.” Her voice low, exasperated.

“I don’t know what to do, Mam. It happened again.”

She took another drag, and exhaled a phlegm-filled sigh towards the malfunctioning fan, the blue haze swirliing towards its dirty yellowed grate.

“Why am I like this, Ma?” He switched off the fan, its blades grinding to a halt.

“It’s a ting,”she said.

“What kinda ting?”

“A family ting. Your da would do it too. Piss all over. I used to have a tiny phonograph. He wee’d on that in the middle of de night. It was still spinnin’. Ruined me favorite record.”

He looked down at the floor. A chill swept over him. She pulled his trembling body into her bulky robe. He cringed, but she held him tight, scruffing his carrot-top hair. The stench of her, the early morning wake-up cigarette, bath powder, and cheap tea, assaulted his senses. “There, there, Paddy. You’ll be fine. “’Tis the challenges in life we need to deal with. It’s not a fecking party in the pub every day of the week, ya’ know.”

“Ma?” His voice muffled in her robe.

“Yeah, son?”

“Where’s da?”

She stepped back from her boy and studied him. She sucked another drag and raised her head, exhaling. “We’ve been down this trail before.”

“Where, Ma?”

“I told you.”

“Ma….”

Her blue-veined hands twitched ever so… as she pulled hard on her cig. She rubbed her scaly neck and fiddled with her thinning hair. “You make it hard, Paddy, with all your questions.”

“He’s locked away.”

“Where’d that come from?” she snapped, placing both his cheeks in her hands.

“James.” His voice a whisper.

“Don’t be leaning on other people’s evil to make up your own life’s story.”

“He said, Ma, that Da was loony. And the coppers put him away.”

She tossed the fag into the toilet. Its ash sizzled in the yellowish water. “Come, Paddy, let’s have a bit of a chat.” She took his hand and guided him into the cluttered living room, dimming the light and patting the frayed sofa, motioning for him to sit beside her.

His lips quivered, still dressed only in his boxers. “Lord, you’re still cold, da lips, they’re turnin’ blue.” She reached over to the ottoman and removed one of her quilts, wrapping it around him. He snuggled into it, breathing a long sigh.

“Better?”

“Tanks, Ma.”

“Your da had many tings rollin’ around in his head. He had the troubles. Here.” She gently tapped her son’s head. “But a good man. He tried.”

“I try, Ma.”

“I know you do, Paddy, but he tried to figure too much.”

“Figure what?”

“Like the sun, the wind. He’d sit and point to the leaves on the trees, blowin’ this way and that. I thought it was nice, romance like, but he did it…,” she shook her head slowly, “too much.”

“He’d just sit and watch the wind?”

“Or the stars. Or the rain.”

“Why would the coppers take him away for that?”

“People don’t understand.”

“But Ma...”

“He could build tings, when he wasn’t dreamin’. And one day he’d finished a fence for Jimmy Doyle. Your da was a grand fence builder. Even built one for Mr. Daley, the kinda’ man you don’t meet every day now, and Jimmy said he’d pay your Da in a month. But the deal was pay now, when done.”

“Why’d the coppers take him away?”

“Your da wanted the money right off, no waiting. But Jimmy was a guy who thought he was someting’. He’d go down to O’Roarke’s and get into scuffs. Put up his dukes.”

Paddy smiled and raised his fists. “I remember Da when I was a wee lad, showin’ me how to fight.”

“He loved you, Paddy.” She rubbed his head. “You have his hair. Red as the burnin’sun.”

“What then, Ma, with Doyle?”

“Doyle had had a few pints at the pub. His chest got all puffy. He got like that when he’d have a drink. And he come here lookin’ for Da.”

“Why?”

“He wanted to scrap. Put on the squeeze. Show him up.”

“What did Da do?”

“He was up on the roof.”

“The roof?” Paddy’s voice rose with both embarrassment and confusion.

“He was gazin’ at the stars, like he did. Them lads were full of dew and tried to have fun on him. Yellin’ vile words and callin’ him loony and tings.”

“What did Da do?”

“He gave ‘em what for.”

“What for?”

“He climbed down. He told Doyle and the other drunkards to leave because he was lookin’ at the stars. They laughed like they were teasin’ a wee cripple.”

“What did Da do?”

“ Your da took his hammer, the claw end....” She hesitated, picking at the collar of her robe.

“What, Ma?”

“…and buried it in Doyle’s eye.”

“In his eye?”

“Aye, lad. Right in his feckin’ eye.”

“What then, Ma?”

“Doyle lay writhin’ in his mess and your Da just went back on the roof, calm as could be. The other lads scurried off like the banshees were lightin’ out.”

“And then the coppers came?”

“Aye.” Her voice barely audible. “They came and took him away.”

“Was he, Ma?”

“What?” she said, pulling her robe tight around her neck.

“Loony,” he asked, his soft voice cracking in the morning air. “Was he, Ma?”

“Oh, Paddy.” She rubbed her gnarled fingers over her nose, wiping the snot of her tears away. “I don’t know.”

“Am I, Ma?”

“I don’t want to hear it, Paddy.”

“Loony. Like Da.”

Silence filled the room with a thick darkness. His ma searched for her handkerchief buried in her matted robe.

“Am I? I think things too, Ma. Crazy tings. I’m pissin’ all over. I dream when I ain’t sleepin’. And I look just like ‘im. Am I, Ma? Am I loony?”

She choked, coughing up an anguished moan as if her past was erupting from her belly. “I don’t know, Paddy.”

“Will the coppers take me, too?”

She pulled him closer, clutching him with all her strength, keeping him from falling into the blackness of his fate. She took a deep breath, her gnarled fingers squeezing him with her terror.

“Will they, Ma?”

“Never,” she said, standing, ripping back the curtains. “Never,” her voice filling the sunlit room.

#fiction

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knotsandknives · 7 years

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from the angst meme: please come get me, with our wonderful joseph and robert?

“Come get me,” Robert’s voice filters through the phone, hushed like he doesn’t want to be overheard, slurred like he’s on the other side of a bottle, just mean enough to raise Joseph’s hackles. He’s drunk and stupid, and Joseph is in no mood.

“That’s how you speak to someone you’re trying to get a favor out of?” Joseph bites back, righteous and judgmental. He hadn’t wanted to answer the phone in the first place, but the anxious part of him, the part that was born right alongside his first child, insisted that it could be something dire. That Robert might have been in some grave danger, and how would he feel knowing he’d let that call go to voicemail.

Of course, he should have known it would be nothing more dangerous than a 50-something year old man, fall-down drunk with his keys in the possession of his favorite bartender.

“Please come get me,” Robert growls on the other end of the line, low and tight through ostensibly gritted teeth. Where he gets off copping an attitude with Joseph is beyond him. Robert was the one who picked a fight, Robert was the one who stormed out, Robert’s the one currently in danger of having to walk home in 3 inches of still-falling snow. He’s got some nerve.

“The kids are in bed,” Joseph says, a blatant lie. He’s hoping Robert is too drunk to remember the kids are at their grandparents’ for the weekend.

No such luck. Joseph always forgets how good Robert is at being drunk. Not that it’s anything to be admired. But the man can hold his liquor.

“The kids are in fucking Connecticut.”

Joseph sighs, big and deep enough that the weariness of it should be enough to penetrate Robert’s drunken haze. He needs Robert to know how much he’s inconveniencing him. How much of a burden he is on Joseph. How pissed Joseph must still be at him to even entertain those type of thoughts.

“It’s past midnight. I’m not dressed.” Even as he says it, Joseph is climbing out of bed, shivering against the chill of the room. He’d been too mad to turn the heat up as he’d stormed his way upstairs earlier.

“So what?” Robert says back, and Joseph can hear the leer through the phone. Unbelievable.

“Don’t fucking try and hit on me, Robert. I’m not in the mood,” Joseph snaps, angrily stuffing his feet into his sneakers, not even bothering with socks. He doesn’t bother with pants or a shirt, either. He refuses to put an ounce more effort into this mission of mercy than he has to.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Robert mutters. Joseph ignores him.

He recognizes that the only person he’s punishing is himself as he steps out the front door in a coat, unbuttoned over his bare chest, barely reaching the tops of his thighs, legs bare below the knee. The thin material of his boxers does nothing but make him colder. Joseph hisses, clamping his jaw before his teeth can start to chatter.

Robert is making soothing noises through the phone, but Joseph isn’t sure who they’re directed at. “I’m on my way,” he says shortly, hanging up the phone without waiting for a reply and tossing it into the passenger seat as he clambers into his SUV. Leather seats seem great in theory, with their easy cleanup and stain-resistant nature, perfect for hauling kids around, but in reality, they’re cold as hell against bare legs in sub-20 temperatures.

Joseph curses Robert’s name, heritage, pets, all the way to Jim and Kim’s. The drive isn’t even long enough for the heat to start working properly, but at least his seat warmer is doing its best to keep him from literally fusing to his ice block of a seat. He pulls crookedly into a parking spot, considers just sitting there without alerting Robert to his presence, but the cold air still blowing through the vents propel him out of the car, toward the warm lights of the bar.

It’s late enough, and the town is small enough, that Robert seems to be the only patron left in the dingy little dive. Joseph lets the door bang open, a swirl of icy wind and snow follows him in, and Robert’s head turns automatically toward the commotion.

“Jesus, Joe, you couldna least made yourself decent?”

Robert sounds like he’s trying very carefully not to slur his words, but there’s a glass of some amber liquid still held in his hand, and his perch on his stool is precarious at best. Joseph shares a look with the man behind the bar, whose name Joseph knows he should know but can’t be bothered to search for.

“I would have called him a cab or something, but he insisted you’d come get him,” he says apologetically, wincing at the sight of Joseph in what clearly are his sleep clothes. “Didn’t know he’d be dragging you out of bed.”

“He’s fine, he wasn’t sleepin’,” Robert interjects, before Joseph has a chance. “He’s too mad to sleep. Prob’ly just layin’ there, stewin’ an’ shit. Good fer ‘im to cool off.”

Joseph turns on his heel, ready to leave the way he came without a word, but Robert makes a distressed noise behind him, the clatter of the stool letting Joseph know he’s making an attempt to stand. Joseph turns around slowly, hands planted firmly on his hips, bare where his boxers have ridden down. Joseph doesn’t miss Robert’s sweeping glance, but neither does he acknowledge it.

“You’re drunker than you were when you called,” Joseph says, flatly, watching Robert struggle upright. There’s a pull to go help him, sling an arm around him and hold him close, settle him first in the car and then in bed, bring him water and aspirin and offer him slow morning sex to help him recover from his hangover. There’s this innate need to nurture him, but Joseph fights it. This will not be how their lives go, and Robert either needs to figure that out or….

Joseph shies away from finishing the thought, letting Robert brace a hand on his shoulder as he draws near.

“Drunker, yes,” Robert says, and if there was a continuation of that thought, it’s lost to the breeze when Joseph pulls the door open, offering a short wave to the bartender on their way out.

Joseph moves away from Robert when they reach the front of the car, headlights blindingly intense where they reflect off the gathering snow. Robert stumbles a little, but Joseph assuages the guilt by reasoning that, if he were to fall, at least the fall would be cushioned. He climbs back into a much warmer cabin, stretching his frozen fingers in front of the vents as Robert picks his way around to the passenger’s side.

“You’re gonna catch your fuckin’ death, comin’ out here like that,” Robert scolds slowly, not missing the way Joseph shivers when he opens his door. He takes his time getting in, anyway.

“It seems like there’s a way I could have avoided coming out here like this,” Joseph replies, barely waiting for Robert to slam his door before throwing the vehicle into reverse. Robert tips his head back against the seat, eyes closed, and Joseph can literally smell the alcohol on him.

“You coulda put some goddamn clothes on.”

“You could have put the goddamn bottle down.”

“Ooh, he is mad,” Robert whispers, mostly to himself. Joseph ignores him.

The snow hasn’t slowed a bit since it started falling, right around the time Robert had left, and Joseph says a quick prayer of thanks for four-wheel drive and light traffic. Still, even the large SUV has a little trouble climbing the incline of Robert’s driveway when Joseph swings in. The wheels spin, a little, and the resulting lurch causes Robert to open his eyes for the first time. He blinks around, slow and impaired, before frowning.

“You’re at the wrong house. I know it’s only a stone’s throw from your place but you shouldn’t be stompin’ around in the snow in that getup,” Robert tells him, words still fuzzy around the edges.

“I’m not at the wrong house. This is your house. Get inside.”

Robert keeps frowning at him, face lit by soft streetlights and even softer snow. “You kickin’ me out?”

“You let yourself out,” Joseph corrects him, trying to keep his voice neutral. “You made a choice. I’m just honoring your decision.”

“Aw hell, you’re sore at me?” Robert blurts out, regretting the outburst immediately as he raises a hand to his head. “I just needed to blow off some steam, honey.”

“You went. You blew. What else is there?” Joseph asks, determinedly not meeting his eye. Robert’s eyes are a weakness for Joseph. He can’t look at him and hope to maintain his resolve.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Joseph sighs, long and weary again. Robert isn’t impressed. “What else is there, Robert? If this is how you’re going to react every time we have an argument then…” Joseph trails off, tries to leave it there. Robert won’t let him.

“Then what?” he says, and there’s the danger Joseph was afraid of earlier. There’s the question he was trying to avoid asking himself.

Joseph grips the steering wheel, shrugging Robert off when he reaches for one of his shoulders, trying to turn him to face him. “Then I don’t know, Robert. I just know that this is not how I’m going to live. I already had a spouse who solved all of our problems with alcohol. I can’t do it again.”

“Since when am I your spouse?” Robert asks, and it’s not mean or cutting. Just curious, and perhaps a little hopeful. Joseph shakes his head.

“You know what I mean. Partner. Companion. Whatever.”

“I’m not saying I’m opposed to being your spouse,” Robert clarifies, more sober than he’s been all night.

Joseph shoots him an incredulous look, breaking his own rule about eye contact. “Seriously? Right now, you’re saying this to me? I’m talking about splitting up and you’re half-assedly proposing?”

Robert makes a face, eyebrows drawn together. “You’re not talking about splitting up. You’re mad.”

“And you left!” Joseph yells, fed up. “I get mad, and you leave. Or you get mad, and still, you leave. All you ever do is leave, Robert, and I’m not going to spend my whole life getting left.”

“So, what? You wanna stand in the kitchen and scream at each other? That’s what healthy relationships are built on?” Robert yells back, impending headache be damned apparently.

“They aren’t built on one person getting fall down drunk every time there’s a disagreement.”

“You knew about the drinking when we started this,” Robert reminds him. He’s the one avoiding looking at Joseph, now, eyes fixed pointedly out the windshield. “It’s always been a thing. I don’t….deal with confrontation well.”

Joseph blows out a breath, the too-hot car making it hard to think. He thinks about shutting the car off, but that would be too much of a concession. What he really needs is space. He wishes Robert would just go inside already, before they say something they’ll both regret.

“You don’t deal with confrontation at all. You bail. And I’m tired of being bailed on.”

“So, what?” Robert says again, and his voice has adopted that low, tight sound from before. The dangerous one. There’s danger everywhere they turn tonight, it seems. “You’re bailing on me now? The bailee becomes the bailer?”

Joseph drags his hands over his face, eyes stinging from the lateness of the hour, from the rush of emotion he can’t ebb. “I came to get you. And now I’m dropping you off.”

“Joseph,” Robert starts, hand on his arm again.

“Robert, please.”

“Please what?”

Joseph hangs his head, chin touching his chest, too tired to pretend he isn’t. “Go inside. Sleep it off.”

“And then what? Am I gonna wake up without a partner?”

Joseph looks at him, long and hard. He sees the fear behind the indignation, the tremble in his hands and bottom lip, the desperation, and he wants to take it all back. To comfort and reassure him, like Robert so obviously needs. He also sees the glassiness of his eyes, the liquor weighing down his limbs, and wants to burn it all down right then, see what rises from the ash of their dysfunctional relationship.

“I’m going home,” Joseph says, slowly, surprising himself with how steady his voice sounds. “And you’re going to sleep it off. And then you’re going to think about what you want.”

“And then what?” Robert presses, almost begging now.

Joseph sighs again, his last one of the evening. He leans across Robert, opening his door for him, breathing in the bitterly cold night air. It freezes in his lungs, steals his breath, and so if the next words come out choked, Joseph knows what’s to blame.

“And then….please come get me.”

#robert small #joseph christiansen #roseph #dream daddy #ddadds #prompt fill #okay this one is not as nice as the others #and i am SORRY #but i just started typing and this is what came out #thank you for sending it and thanks everyone for reading #these are so fun #my fic #Anonymous

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