#And then when John gray and William were leaving William turned around and you could see that Jamie was given that same false hope
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Three Part Harmony (20/?)
“This is,” Rhonda said, looking at Scully with nervous apprehension over the console of her hatchback, “exactly what Assistant Director Skinner warned us not to do.”
Scully sighed from the passenger seat, lowering the binoculars she was using to watch the activity at the Sheriff’s station where Mulder was being held. They were parked a block and a half away, on the side of the street facing the department, and Scully had one of Rhonda’s winter hats pulled over her hair, a scarf muffled up, obscuring the bottom half of her face. From his car seat behind Rhonda, William babbled happily, cheered to be somewhere other than the cabin.
Skinner had given Rhonda the information on Mulder’s transfer, cautioning the woman that she and Scully should take William as far from Mulder as they could. He’d included the details–including mentioning that it would be done using a US Marshals attachment and SWAT-outfitted LLE escorts–as a warning, hoping to scare the women away. But Scully felt only emboldened by the information, enjoying the rare feeling of knowing exactly what she was up against.
“Skinner,” Scully said, looking Rhonda in the eye, “doesn’t know that we have more than just a couple of guns and our wits.”
It had taken Scully a full forty five minutes to explain the one part of their story that they had kept from Rhonda: William’s incredible gifts. And Scully had spent the last several days testing the limits of what she could do with his power. She was nowhere near to tapping his full potential–something she could sense was buried deep within him—but she was somewhat confident that what she could do would be enough to at least give them a chance of freeing Mulder. Maybe. They’d have to play their cards right. And Mulder would have to seize the opportunity when she gave it to him.
Rhonda barked a nervous laugh and Scully couldn’t help but smile back at her. “William the Conquerer,” Rhonda said ruefully, shaking her head.
Scully looked south, where the mountains beyond the low buildings of the town were wreathed in thick gray clouds. For once, she thought, foul weather might work in their favor.
Up ahead at the station, what looked like an armored van pulled up, cages around all the back windows, thick treaded tires rolling to a stop. In white on the side, US Marshals Service was emblazoned in block letters. Four agents tipped themselves out of the vehicle and headed into the department. Outside, two local cruisers pulled in as well, one ahead of the large van, and one behind.
Rhonda whistled.
“Geez,” she said. “You’d think they were transporting Dillinger. How are we gonna…?”
Scully looked the van over and sighed. “I’m still figuring that out.”
She turned to look over her shoulder at William in the back, probed him a little with her mind, seeking their connection until she could feel it thrum between them. Scully then leveled what she hoped was an honest look at Rhonda.
“I think we’re going to have to follow them at a safe distance. Nearly all the routes down into Utah are through some pretty sparse, mountainous country. I think we’ve got to hit them when we’re way out there. No access to backup or people that might get in our way.”
“...hit them?” Rhonda said, going pale.
“Metaphorically,” Scully said. “Probably,” she muttered, an afterthought.
“Either way,” she went on. “William will stay in the car with you. I can stay connected to him from a fair distance. A hundred yards or so.” She had been testing the limits of their connection. “I need you to keep him that far back. If anything happens to me or if things go badly…Leave. And take him.”
“Take him where?” Rhonda said, paling further.
“Do you still have that address I had you send the package to?”
Rhonda nodded, visibly swallowing.
“Take him to that man. John Doggett. He will help you.”
Several deputies bristling with paramilitary gear got out of their vehicles and congregated by the back door of the Sheriff’s station, where there seemed to be a fresh build up of activity. The deputies were in tactical vests, a couple with larger semi-automatic weapons. Scully felt a swell of raw, tingling nerves.
How she was going to get her partner was still largely a question mark, though she had a few ideas. The odds, however, appeared to be pretty stacked against them.
Oh, Mulder, she thought with a pang of worried apprehension. Mulder.
XxXxXxXxXxX
“Scully!”
Mulder sat bolt upright on the narrow mattress. The metal plank upon which he rested took up more than half of the cramped cell. Something had roused him, like an electric jolt to the brain, and he woke up disoriented and startled.
“‘Fraid not,” said a voice from the other side of the bars, and Mulder looked up to see Agent Bryson standing there in a dark wool suit with a navy FBI slicker pulled over it. There were four similarly dressed pasty-faced white men with the stars of the US Marshals Service stamped on their lapels milling around behind him.
A local deputy was at the door, sliding in a key and unlocking the cell. He was loaded for bear, so far as Mulder could tell, having been around the local deputies for a few days now; the man uncharacteristically outfitted in a full kevlar kit, a second pistol strapped to his leg.
“We’ll take it from here,” one of the suited men said to the local, who backed off respectfully.
“On your feet!” called out another, and Mulder was briskly pulled to his feet and two of the Marshals secured shackles to his wrists and ankles. He was marched out the door of his cell, his legs shuffling along with the too-short chains, on down the hallway and to the back door of the department. The two men holding his elbows pulled up short when they got to the door.
“We have the prisoner at the back door,” one of them spoke into his walkie. “Be advised. Prepare convoy.”
“Convoy is a go,” a voice came in over the radio, and then the back door was unlocked and Mulder was marched outside, the thin material of his orange prison jumper not much protection from the cold. The air was heavy, moist with unfallen snow, and there was a frigid wind that felt like needles along the skin of his cheeks.
He did not get much fresh air however, as he was escorted into a large, dark Econovan with caged windows, his shackles secured to a metal eyehook that was bolted to the floor. Three of the Marshals got in behind him, and the fourth, who held up a hand to Bryson as he attempted to get into the front passenger seat, turned the FBI agent away and got into the driver’s seat. There was a cage separating the cab of the van with the back where Mulder and the other Marshals were, with a small door the size of a video cassette through which items could be passed.
Mulder had his first smug moment of the day as he connected eyes with Bryson, who turned unhappily on his heel and made his way toward the lead car, sliding into the front seat of the sheriff’s cruiser that would be leading the small convoy.
“Marshal One ready for transport,” the driver said into his radio, and a moment later, a crackling buzz came through from the other cars.
“Local One ready.”
“Local Two ready.”
“Let’s roll,” the driver said, and dropped the walkie into the empty passenger’s seat.
The other Marshals secured their seatbelts as the cruiser in front pulled out onto the street, followed by the van and then one other cruiser bringing up the rear.
Mulder turned to the Marshal sitting nearest him. “I don’t get a seatbelt?” he asked. “Thought it was the law.”
“Hey fellas, this guy in a DOC suit and handcuffs is suddenly very worried about the law,” one of the Marshals announced. He then toed the eyehook Mulder’s shackles were locked to. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said without emotion, and turned to look out the windows of the van, scanning the streets around them as they passed.
The officers were not a very talkative bunch, and for the most part ignored Mulder’s few probing questions. When he couldn’t get a straight answer on how long the journey might last, he leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes, letting himself doze and fall back into dreams where he might see Scully and William once again.
XxX
When he woke, it was to that odd electric feeling in his head, and he took a sharp breath and sat up. The van was rolling along through a high valley pass, and snow had begun falling in earnest. It wasn’t so thick that Mulder couldn’t make out the cruisers that were still in front and behind them, but the mountains they were passing were shrouded in thick whiteness, the van’s windshield wipers going at top speed, struggling to keep up with the deluge.
He looked to the other men in the vehicle with him, and could sense a tension that hadn’t been there when they’d pulled out of town. The Marshal sitting next to him was squinting through the window at the back of the van, then leaned forward to mumble something to the driver that Mulder couldn’t make out.
The driver sighed and reached for the walkie.
“Local Two,” the van’s driver said into his radio, one hand steadily on the top of the steering wheel.
“Local Two,” a voice answered.
“Two, there’s a late model, rust-colored hatchback that’s about a quarter of a mile behind us. Can you drop back and check it out?”
Mulder turned to look, but the weather was worsening, and it was now hard to make out anything much beyond headlights through the swirling snow.
“Copy, Marshal One,” the voice said. “Falling back.”
Mulder watched as the cruiser behind them slowed and eased back into the whiteness.
Several minutes later, the driver of their van, huffing a sigh of annoyance, picked up the walkie and opened the cab cage’s small pass-through door, handing the radio to the Marshal sitting next to Mulder.
“Get him back on the horn and get a report,” the driver instructed. “I need both hands to drive in this shit.”
The other Marshal nodded and gave the walkie two clicks before speaking into it.
“Local Two,” he said.
There was a crackle of static, but no response.
“Local Two, come back,” he said a little louder, turning to look out the back window. Mulder couldn’t help but do the same, but there was nothing to see now but snow coming down around them and the windy swirl of white crystals being kicked up behind their own tires.
When there wasn’t an answer, the Marshal sighed huffily and raised the walkie back to his mouth.
“Local One, radio check.”
“Local One receiving,” came Bryson’s voice through the walkie. “Do we have a problem?”
The Marshal holding the radio rolled his eyes. “This fucking guy,” he muttered, before pressing the speaking button. “Be advised, Local Two isn’t responding after the drop-back.”
The radio gave a low squawk. “I noticed. Can you see him back there?”
The Marshal turned, squinting through the back windshield. “I can’t see shit.”
“It’s probably the fuckin’ weather,” said the agent who was sitting in the far back bench seat of the van.
“I don’t like it,” came Bryson’s clipped voice.
“Advise we pull over to regroup,” said the Marshal holding the walkie. “Visibility is shit anyway.”
“This weather is the reason we told him to hold off another day on the transfer,” the back seat Marshal rumbled, clearly unhappy.
“No stopping!” came Bryson’s voice sharply. “We continue on as planned.”
“This isn’t his fucking op,” said the driver, who opened up the small pass-through again and reached a flailing hand back. “He’s lucky we let him ride along. Give me the walkie.”
The other Marshal passed it up to the driver, who snapped it quickly to his face, leaving the pass-through open. “That isn’t your call, Local One,” he said. “Pull over now. We regroup with Local Two and reassess. Over.”
With that, the driver tossed the walkie into the passenger seat once again and pulled off onto the shoulder of the highway, flicking on the van’s hazard lights.
They were in the middle of nowhere, Mulder realized. And not a single car had passed them since he’d woken up.
The cruiser in front of them, though parked no more than twenty yards ahead, was really only visible by the flashers on the light bar. A few moments later, a dark figure emerged from in front of them and Bryson was momentarily lit by the van’s headlights as he walked through them, making his way to the driver’s side window. He tapped on the glass angrily.
Mulder could hear the weary sigh that the driver huffed before he reached over and manually rolled the window down half-way.
“You need to take Local One back to get a visual on Local Two,” the driver told Bryson, whose head was shaking ‘no,’ before the man even finished talking.
“I’ll send him back, but I’m not leaving the prisoner,” Bryson said, flicking his eyes angrily to Mulder, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a cold wind cutting in through the window.
“Suit yourself,” the driver said, and rolled the window back up.
Bryson went back to the cruiser and reappeared a minute later as the police car initiated a three point turn and passed them, heading back in the direction they’d come.
“You gonna leave him out there?” The Marshal in the backseat asked, nodding at Bryson.
“I’d like to,” the driver said noncommittally.
The man to Mulder’s left snorted, the first sound Mulder had heard him utter all day.
“If you don’t let him in, he’s going to be an even bigger pain in the ass,” said the guy who had taken over radio duties.
The driver sighed in defeat and leaned over to the passenger door and threw the lock open. Bryson wasted no time swinging into the seat on a gust of subarctic air. He picked up the walkie that had been left in his seat and held it to his face.
“Local One, stay on the radio, please.”
“Roger that,” came the officer’s voice through the device. “Visibility is almost nothing,” the officer went on, “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to–” on that, there was a burst of noise so intense that everyone in the car flung their hands to their ears. The walkie went sailing out of Bryson’s hand, and Mulder nearly took out his front teeth with the chains from his handcuffs as he raised them to muffle the sound.
The driver yelled something, but the noise continued, and finally, with a wince, he took one hand off an ear and swiped the walkie talkie from the floor and turned it off, leaving the van in a sudden and violent silence.
Everyone sat, dazed for a few moments before the driver turned to Mulder and spoke to him directly for the first time.
“I swear to God, if this is some breakout rescue attempt…”
Mulder, still shaken by the noise, could only gape at him.
“We’ve read your file,” said one of the other Marshals. “We know you had help escaping custody at Mount Weather.”
Mulder seriously doubted Alvin Kersh was out there in the snow, willfully breaking the law once again to save his least favorite erstwhile agent. And Scully didn’t have the resources to so much as attempt something like this, (plus he was confident Skinner would relay his message to stay far, far away from him).
The only explanation, Mulder thought, was that this was some kind of play by Bryson to get him out of official custody and into a much oogier unofficial custody in an attempt to get Mulder to give up where William was. However, Bryson–who had pulled his service weapon and was holding it and appeared to be sweating–was doing an admirable acting job if that was the case.
Whatever was going on, Mulder didn’t have the foggiest idea what it was.
“We need to-” whatever the Marshal was saying was cut off with a now-intense buzzing Mulder could feel in the back of his skull. When he darted his eyes to the other passengers, however, they seemed totally unaffected and the man who had been speaking was still moving his mouth, though Mulder couldn’t hear what he was saying.
“--der,” he heard, in what was unmistakably Scully’s voice. But he didn’t hear her voice with his ears, but rather in his head, where the buzzing was emanating. It was remarkably similar to when he could hear others’ thoughts, pushed into what bordered on madness by an alien craft. But this didn’t feel like lunacy; it was warm and euphoric.
“Mulder,” he heard again in Scully’s voice, this time more clear, the buzzing lessening. “Is that you?”
“Scully,” he thought. “What are–”
“There’s no time for explanations,” she said in his head. “I need you to look around. Show me what you see.”
Though his mind was racing with thoughts and questions and alarm, he instinctively turned his head and looked around the van. The Marshals were getting agitated, all of them pulling their own weapons, and Scully’s voice tuned in and out, interspersed with the angry voices of the other men in the vehicle. His head was turning more and more into a confusing jumble.
“--we need to–”
“--this is not your fucking op–”
“--call it in–”
“--get down–”
It was the last voice–Scully’s–that Mulder instinctively heeded, leaning sideways and down as far as he could in his awkward, chained position as all of the weapons from every officer in the car went flying out of hands, some through the open pass-through of the cab cage, to form a ball of glistening steel that hovered in the air between the driver and Bryson. And then, just as quickly, the windshield of the van blew out and the guns went with it, leaving a momentarily stunned silence with only the backdrop of the howling wind blowing icy flakes of snow in through the gaping gap at the front of the vehicle.
And there, now standing in the dull cones of the van’s headlights stood Scully, dark hair whipping around her face.
Mulder stared at her in awe.
Just as the other men in the car were getting over their shock, all four of the US Marshals were pulled violently back as the seatbelts, which they all were still wearing, tightened around them with a startling whip of hissing nylon. Sparks then flew from the ignition and the van’s engine died.
Bryson began shouting, but the Marshals were all pulling at the straps and jamming the buckle release buttons which refused to disengage.
“Lean back!” came Scully’s voice, no longer in his head, and Mulder just had time to obey as the eyehook that held his shackles was wrenched from the floor of the van with an ear-splitting groan of metal.
The sliding door slid open on its own and Mulder wasted no time, diving past a Marshal who was still tearing at his restraints and out into the snow. The van’s door whipped closed behind him and Mulder spun in time to see all of the van’s door handles simultaneously collapse on themselves, like a tin can crushed beneath a boot.
Behind them came the rumble of an engine, and Rhonda’s old Datsun puttered up beside them, slowing to a stop next to the disabled van.
“Get in the car, Mulder!” Scully shouted, already opening the passenger door and disappearing into the back seat, where Mulder could see the handle of William’s car seat sticking up from behind Rhonda.
Mulder swung into the passenger seat and the second his door was closed, Rhonda goosed the gas, and they were off into the snowy beyond.
The last thing Mulder saw of the van before it was swallowed by a squall, was Bryson crawling out of the hole where the windshield used to be and turning to watch as the old Datsun drove away.
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Cute timid little pet || yandere!William Afton (Dave Miller) x fem!reader
You're friends with Charlie and the rest of the guys. One day they dragged you to a creepy place. You thought it would be a harmless idea. But you didn't think you'd run into this... a man
(sorry for my bad english)
cr: squid_nuudel
When you met his gaze, you flinched. Those gray eyes were looking into your soul, trying to turn your insides inside out. You swallowed the lump in your throat, shivering.
- Y/n, is everything okay? - John gently grabbed you by the shoulder, forcing you to break away from the man.
You turned to John, giving him a tight smile.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Dave clenching his fist, as if trying to calm down. But he just turned around and walked on. What was that?
- If you don't want to get lost here, it's better to hurry up, - although the stranger scared you, but you admired his voice. With this British accent, he could pass as a voice actor, and his appearance was attractive, given his age. You'd give him 45 years like that.
Shaking your head, you followed the others, wondering at your own thoughts. The current situation definitely affects you if you think about some suspicious man almost three times older than you.
- Have you been working here for a long time? - it looks like Charlie was trying to smooth out this tense silence. You sighed softly, remembering why you agreed to this outing. It would be better to stay at home, drinking tea and watching a movie, than to be in a place where murders once took place.
- No, - a low voice sounded literally behind you. You suppressed the urge to jump away from him, -about a month.
You stopped at the entrance, or rather the exit from the building. The guys were already leaving, talking about something. You'd be out soon, too, if your books hadn't fallen out of your bag. But you definitely remember that it was closed. Quickly starting to pack your things, you literally felt someone else's gaze on you. It burned through, making you shake in fear.
- Here, - Dave spoke literally in your ear.
You flinched, uttering a barely audible cry. You looked at him and wanted to pick up the books, but he just smiled sweetly and looked into your eyes. You couldn't look away. Someone else's fingers slid over your palm, lightly stroking. Abruptly, the man grabbed your wrists and pulled you towards him. His hands rested on your waist. Even through the layers of clothing, you could feel the heat coming from them. Or did your body burn? You didn't know.
- Cute, timid little pet, - Dave purred, burning your parted lips with his hot breath. You instantly blushed and looked away. A laugh made you close your eyes, - Tomorrow at the same time. If you don't come, you'll regret it. All right, my dear Y/n?
- Hey, Y/n, are you there soon? It's almost three o'clock in the morning, - someone shouted from the street, for which you were very grateful. The night guard let you go, put the book in your bag, but continued to hold your hand. There might be bruises, you were sure of it. You saw how he brought her to his face and kissed her without taking his eyes off you. Your skin is covered with goosebumps. Pulling it out, you quickly zipped up your backpack and literally flew out of the building, where you already wanted to leave this damn place with a quick step.
- Can we still come here? - Carlton... fuck him, he's always looking for adventures on the fifth point. You turned to them, wanting to tell them it was a bad idea. But... you were stopped by lifeless eyes, again looking at you.
- Yes, you can, - he grinned at those present, but you can definitely say that this grin was intended for you.
Even when you were far enough away, and the cold wind was playing with your hair, erasing all thoughts, his voice could be heard in your head. And there was still his cold gaze in front of your eyes, which will haunt you everywhere.
#fnaf#fnaf au#five nights at freddy's#fnaf william afton#william afton#william afton x reader#dave miller#dave miller x reader#fnaf x you#male yandere#fnaf purple guy#purple guy#purple guy x reader
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Broken Things 1/24
by: mldrgrl
Rating: varies by chapter, rated R overall
Summary: The year is 1886, William Mulder owns a horse ranch in northern Texas. The widow of a neighboring landowner has something he wants.
Notes: Please be aware that this fic will contain ‘off-camera’ references to violence and abuse of various kinds. I will not be tagging individual TWs on the chapters.
Prologue
Many years from now, when he tells the tales of his younger days, he will claim that this is the day that changed his life forever. If that horse hadn’t thrown a shoe, well then. His wife will roll her eyes at this, tell him that any number of events prior to that day had already changed his life forever. The decision to leave Massachusetts for the open prairie, for example, had changed his life forever. The fact that his father had sent him to live with his aunt in the countryside instead of keeping him in the city had changed his life forever. The pony he received for his birthday when he was a child had clearly changed his life forever.
All of that will hindsight one day. Right now, it’s just an ordinary Thursday, the 9th of September, 1886. The weather is mild, almost cool compared to the heat wave that had hit in the latter half of August. And William Mulder’s horse has thrown a shoe.
Chapter 1
Normally, Mulder (only his family ever called him William) sends his ranch hand, Melvin, to take care of small errands and menial tasks, but he hasn’t been to town in almost a month and he could use a change of pace. He hitches one of his more reliable horses to his wagon and takes one of the ones in training as well, one he’s just broken in, to see how he handles on the hour-long ride. Their first stop is Gray’s Blacksmith.
After tying the horses to the post, Mulder gives them both a good scratching about the neck for a job well done and receives a snort and whinny of appreciation. “Well done, boys,” he says. “Carrots and apples at home for both of you if you keep up the good work.”
The familiar sound of clanking and hammering and the crackle of fire greets Mulder as he steps into the open door of the blacksmith’s. He tips his hat to the striker, who nods a greeting. The blacksmith turns and nods as well.
“Mr. Gray,” Mulder says.
“Mr. Mulder,” the blacksmith answers, passing his tongs to his assistant and then removing his gloves to shake hands. “What can I do for ya?”
“Faithful Jenny’s thrown a shoe. Melvin’s fixing her up, but I figured it was a good time to pick up a crate of nails and shoes.”
“Come on back and take a look then. How’s business?”
“Doing well. We’re training up a half dozen draft horses for the postal service right now.”
“Is the rumor you pulled in a mustang a few weeks ago true?”
“Afraid so.”
“You ain’t got a broken neck far as I can tell, so you must be faring alright with him then.”
“You can see him for yourself when I take this cart out to the wagon.”
“You brung him with ya?”
“I did.”
“I’ll be.”
Mulder feels a surge of pride when the blacksmith comes out to admire the horse. He slides the crate of shoes and nails into the back of the wagon and then shows off his friendship with the four-legged beast by rubbing his belly. The horse scratches the ground with his front hoof and shakes his head.
“You sure got a way, Mr. Mulder,” Mr. Gray says. “If you got any stock you’re looking to sell I heard there’s a new homesteader a ways south that was interested.”
“I’m on my way to the mercantile. I’ll be sure to ask John.”
The two men shake hands once again before Mulder gets back in his wagon. He smiles to himself when the blacksmith watches him leave. He’s made a name for himself in the short while he’s been here breaking and training up horses. Folks in the area have said time and again that there isn’t a horse he can’t tame, that it’s almost downright spooky the way he seems to be able to talk to them.
There’s a man being waited on in the mercantile that Mulder doesn’t recognize, probably someone just passing through. He waits for John Byers to finish with the customer, browsing the Montgomery Ward & Co. catalog at the end of the counter.
“Mulder,” John says after ringing the man up at the till. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too, John.” He pulls a shopping list from his pocket and unfolds it. “I’m sure you’re better at translating Melvin’s chicken scratches than me at this point.”
“I believe I can manage.” John chuckles and takes the shopping list. He pulls a crate down and begins to collect items off the shelves and William goes back to the catalogue, thumbing past the illustrations of ladies’ garments to find menswear.
“If I put in an order for denim trousers for me and the boys you think they’ll be in by winter?”
“I’d say it’s likely.”
“Mr. Gray mentioned there were some new homesteaders interested in horses.”
“He must mean Mr. Campbell. It’s oxen he’s after, I believe.”
“If you hear otherwise, send him my way.”
“I’ll do that. I suppose you heard about your neighbor?”
“What neighbor is that?”
“Jack Willis.”
“Haven’t heard a thing. What about him?”
“He spent all of Saturday night at the saloon in a poker game and was found dead in a ditch just outside of town on Sunday morning.”
“Robbed?”
“I should actually say he spent all Saturday night losing in a poker game and downing whiskey like water. I heard he stumbled his way into that ditch of his own accord and met an untimely demise.”
“I only met him the once, but that doesn’t surprise me much. Far be it for me to speak ill of the dead, but the man had a disagreeable disposition. He seemed like the type to get himself into trouble.”
“Well, the bank is soon to be after his widow. I’ve heard he’s in arrears. I’m actually surprised the Sheriff didn’t stop on at your place on his way out there to tell her about her husband’s death.”
“Didn’t know he had a widow. And you know Sheriff Doggett, he’s all business.”
“My Susannah saw them together, he and his wife, the day they passed through looking for land, and you know Susannah, she was beside herself at the notion of another woman come to town, but then no one’s seen hide nor hair of her since.”
“I still regret having been back east when Old Man Goodwin passed. I’ve had my eye on that land for quite some time.”
“Maybe she’ll sell it to you.”
Mulder rubs at his chin in thought. “You say the bank is about to repossess?”
“That’s the rumor. I don’t think Mr. Skinner would relish evicting a new widow, but there probably isn’t much he can do if the mortgage is late.”
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt to take a ride out to pay my respects and assess the situation. Thank you, John.”
Byers nods and gestures to the items laid out on the counter. “I’ll have John Jr. load the cart for you. Would you like this on your account?”
“I’ll square up everything now, but go ahead and order those trousers.”
The hour ride back home gives Mulder time to think. He’s in a position to offer the Willis widow a handsome sum for his neighboring acres. The one and only time he’d met Jack Willis he was immediately soured on trying to form any kind of friendship with him. The man had been downright surly and abrasive and he sure hopes the widow is more neighborly.
Melvin takes over the wagon when Mulder arrives home and shows him the new shoe on Faithful Jenny. The older man is at least a foot closer to the ground than Mulder and proudly displays a life-long love of hearty biscuits around his middle, but there’s no better right-hand man that Mulder could ask for. He’s foreman and farrier, counselor and cook. There isn’t anything Mulder doesn’t trust him with. As they unload the wagon together, he tells him about what he heard from John Byers.
“Well, there’s no harm in asking,” Melvin offers as advice. “If’n the bank really is after her, she might be grateful for the offer. You should probably get out there as soon as possible in case anyone else might be sniffin’ around for them acres.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“You know if’n I’d heard about Bob Goodwin any sooner I’d have snatched up them acres for you before I could even send a wire.”
“I know, it’s not your fault. Do me a favor, old man, tack up Blondie while I try to make myself presentable.”
“That could take hours. Days even.”
“Decades, in your case. If it’s even possible.”
The two men laugh over their gentle ribbing of each other and Mulder claps Melvin on the shoulder. He parts from his friend to go wash his face, comb his hair, and put on a fresh shirt. His horse is saddled and ready to go when he comes back out.
“Good luck,” Melvin tells him.
A narrow, slow-moving creek divides Mulder’s property from the Willis widow’s land. It’s one he’s crossed many times when Old Man Goodwin was his neighbor. He knows where the shallowest spot is to lead the horse and where the shrubs are too thick and have to be avoided. He tries not to daydream about what he’ll do with an expansion, but he passes the spot he’d like to clear out for a better corral and where he’d like to add another stable and it’s hard not to hope.
The old sod house that Old Man Goodwin had slapped together is still standing, though it looks to have seen better days. The roof needs patching and the walls are crumbling in spots. He dismounts Blondie when he’s still a few yards away and leads the horse over to the post he knows is at the side of the house. The nearby trough which is usually full of water is empty. The chickens that were usually clucking and underfoot are nowhere to be seen.
Mulder knocks lightly on the clapboard door and moments later a woman with the reddest hair and the bluest eyes he’s ever seen answers.
↭
Katherine is expecting the knock when it comes, though it’s sooner than she thought it would be. In the days since her husband’s death, she’s racked her brain for a solution to her current predicament, but has come up empty handed. She doesn’t delay in answering the door. She may be on the verge of being destitute and homeless, but she’ll face it with dignity.
“Uh, Mrs. Willis, I presume?” the man asks. He stammers a bit but he has an easy, congenial smile that catches her a little off guard. She’d been expecting the Sheriff she’d met on Sunday, but perhaps the bank manager in this town takes care of evictions.
“Mr. Skinner, I presume?” she finally replies.
The man chuckles and removes his hat. “Ah, no Ma’am,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “I’m afraid I have a bit more hair than our dear Mr. bank manager.”
“Oh.” She should have known. The bank managers she’s had dealings with in the past were stuffy and pinched. This man is far too rugged and handsome to be a bank manager.
“William Mulder.” He holds out his hand to her and when she gives him hers, he bows slightly and brings it to his mouth, brushing his lips lightly across her knuckles. Embarrassed, she pulls her hand back and closes it into a fist to hide her dirty and calloused palms from him.
“Is there something I can help you with?” she asks.
“I know we haven’t met before, but I happen to be your neighbor just to the south. I heard about your husband and I’ve come to pay my respects.”
“I see. Would you...care to come in, then?”
“Thank you.”
He has to bend to step through the low-frame of the door. She has no candles, but there’s enough light from the open door and the unpatched holes in the walls that it’s unnecessary. She watches him look the place over and she can tell he’s not impressed by the shabbiness of it all.
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything to offer you,” she says.
He smiles politely. “That’s alright, Ma’am. I came to be neighborly, but there is also a matter I wanted to discuss regarding this land.”
“Oh?” Fear grips her suddenly. He may not be the bank man, and he may not be the sheriff, but he could be another kind of lawman. Even if he was telling the truth that he was her neighbor, he could still be there to turn her out, or worse yet, remove her to debtor’s prison. Unconsciously, she begins to tremble.
“Mrs. Willis?” he asks. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” she answers, pulling the tattered shawl draped over her shoulders a little tighter across her chest. “A chill is all.”
He looks around again. “You’ve no chair to sit on?”
“No.”
“Would you like to come back outside? Perhaps it will be warmer. You could sit on my horse.”
The absurdity of the offer makes her laugh and eases her anxiety somewhat. He bites his lower lip almost shyly and tips his chin down as he turns the hat over in his hands again. She stares at his mouth, thinking about how the slight overbite he has seems to suit him well. She notes other things too, in the silence. Like how his beard is well-trimmed and his nails are clean. He presents himself as a cowboy, but she knows a city man when she sees one.
“Um, Mrs. Willis, I…”
She flinches at the name. “Katherine,” she says.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’d prefer you call me Katherine.”
He cocks his head a little to the side and smiles. “Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom,” he murmurs.
She can’t help but lift her right eyebrow. It used to irritate her husband immensely when she pulled faces, as he called it. “Rather Kate the Curst,” she replies.
His eyes widen and seem to brighten. “You know Shakespeare?”
“You look surprised.”
“No, no, it’s just...I haven’t had much opportunity to discuss the Bard out here. Apologies for the Taming of the Shrew reference, but whenever I come across a Katherine, I can’t help but make the association. Especially when it’s not altogether untrue.”
She feels the heat rise to her cheeks with the compliment that she knows is entirely unwarranted. She was never very pretty. Her mother used to complain about how wild and curly her hair was when she was a child, not to mention the dreadful freckles across her nose and cheeks. It may have been quite some time since she’s been in the presence of a looking glass, but she doesn’t need one to know that her appearance is lacking.
“I suppose I could have just as easily been a Viola or an Ophelia,” she says, avoiding his flattery.
“Hopefully not a Lady MacBeth.”
“No.” The conversation stalls momentarily, but then she wets her lips and tightens her shawl again. “You said there was something you came to speak with me about?”
“I was away on some business when Old Man...ah, that is, when Mr. Goodwin, the previous owner of your land, passed on. I’d been eyeing this parcel for some time and had been planning to offer Mr. Goodwin a sum to sell it to me. I’d like to make you that same offer.”
“Ah.” She closes her eyes and chuckles mirthlessly for a brief moment. “I’m afraid I can’t take that offer.”
“Have you sold to someone else?”
“No, but I’m not in a position to sell. My husband leased this land and I have every reason to doubt he ever made good on the rent. He drank most of the money and gambled what was left of that.”
“I see.”
“I’m just biding my time now until the bank comes to collect and turn me out.”
“Do you have people back...wherever it is that you're from?”
“Virginia.”
“It’s not but a few days ride to Fort Worth, I could send a wire to someone for you.”
“You would do that?”
“Of course.”
“No.” She shakes her head slowly and sighs. “There’s no one back home, but thank you.”
He shifts his feet and tries to speak, but he says nothing. He looks dumbfounded in a way that almost makes her feel sorry for him.
“Was that all?” she asks.
“Ma’am,” he stammers. “Mrs. Willis...Katherine...I can’t...I can’t…”
She doesn’t know what compels her to do it, but she reaches out and puts her hand over his where it grips the brim of his hat. He falls silent and stops his fidgeting. She squeezes his hand lightly and lets her fingers rest against his wrist for a few moments before she takes it away.
“Since you seem familiar with the bank man,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll get your wish soon enough.”
“But…”
“Good day to you, Mr. Mulder. Thank you for coming.”
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John (11 x reader) Part 2
Word count: 3.1k
Warnings: Violence (!!!), death mention, alcohol mention, knives mention
AN: I couldn’t wait to post this! So I ended up rewriting and editing some of this at a ridiculous time in the morning. Hope you like it! Thank you for the support on the first part, I know it’s not a lot but it means a lot to me. So thank you! Part 3 should be up in a few days maybe.
PART 1
You woke, after a dreamless night, memories rolling about your head, smells of burning throughout the house. Jumping to your feet, you began to panic, assuming the worst had happened you bolted down the stairs, dressed in nothing but the nightshirt john had leant you so you weren’t sleeping in a heavy dress.
“I smell burning, John, is everything alright? John?” You shouted as you entered the kitchen. John, noticed you and turned quickly to face a wall to hide his flushed face
“Dear, everything’s ok, I just burnt an attempt at breakfast, I’ve lifted out a spare toothbrush for you in the bathroom at the top of the stairs,” His breathing faltering slightly, realisation hitting him as he firmly faced the wall, hand covering his eyes “Maybe we could go out for breakfast considering I burnt this one?”
“Thank you, I’m so sorry I just was worried something was wrong. Especially after last night,” blush now radiating from your own cheeks.
You went upstairs brushed your teeth and changed quickly, and came back down the stairs,
“Do you mind if I use your phone again? I have another call to make, sorry,” You apologised quickly
“I’m going to start charging you for using it, but yes sure,” He teased before giving you some privacy. You dialled the Williams’ number again, Rory this time was the one to answer “statue, 45 minutes. We’re safe, currently playing music,” you said as you heard the radio turn on in the other room and lifted the phone in hopes he could hear it
“Statue? With him?” Rory asked, it was a meeting point to discuss things
“Nope just us, I’ll distract him before he gets to us,” You smiled into the phone and hung up before he could question you any further.
“Are your phone calls always that peculiar or is it just something you do when you're with me?” He asked with a small laugh as you entered his front room the radio loud
“Oh, only when you’re around. I have secrets to keep and friends to meet in three quarters on an hour,”
“Dance with me please,” He cut you off and then extended a hand to you, “no ifs, no secrets, no friends, no knives, just dancing.”
“Fine, you should know I am atrocious though,” You accepted his hand, with a small, sly smile
“At this point, nothing could surprise me, you could be a dancing champion and you’d still be humble about it,” You swayed awkwardly together, his hand on your waist, the other holding yours. He was surprisingly good, despite the doctors natural inability to dance. At one point he attempted to spin you and failed miserably, causing laughter to erupt between you both, your faces inching closer gradually. You blinked and his mouth was on yours, it felt foriegn and wrong, very un-doctor-like and confident. You realised and slapped him.
“No, you’re not doing that, we aren’t doing that. Not now,” You spluttered stepping back suddenly, teeth bared, wiping your lips with the back of your hand aggressively “You aren’t him, stop it, back off ”
“I’m not your old friend, (Y/N), I know, I just- I thought we had-”
“Save it. I’m leaving to meet my friends, thank you for the talk, and the bed, and the dance, but I’m leaving,” You picked up your coat, bag and slammed the door behind you, leaving John in awkward strong silence, rubbing his sore cheek.
By the time you’d met Amy and Rory you’d started weeping. You explained the whole situation to them, “I mean at least he’s still oblivious to the actual danger, that’s got to be small positive in all of this, they haven’t actually begun anything” Rory stated adjusting the cuffs on his shirt
“Not so great about the kissing though is it?” You finished sending a sharp glare back at him
“Definitely less of a positive, more of a neutral point, really, just a thing, that happened,” He stumbled "We'll go out tonight and you can forget about it.". They had found the watches one real, one fake, one in the TARDIS the other in his classroom. Plans could be set in motion. It was a Friday, the school day only began at 12 as the majority of students and staff attended a church service in the morning. You arrived with a handful of minutes to spare, ignoring the judgemental glares of your colleagues. The school was quiet, which wasn't a bad thing typically, but silent Fridays felt wrong and uncomfortable.
At some point during your day, an unfamiliar man walked into the office.
"Hello sir? Can I help you?" you questioned
"Ah yes, girl. I'm here to speak to my son. An issue has occurred at home and I need to make him aware of it. I'm Henry Baker, my son is William," he sounded stiff when he spoke as if his lines had been rehearsed
"Ah, he's in Mr Smith's class currently, I'll have to escort you there I'm afraid, school rules," you spoke, fake confidence filling your voice. You reached Mr Smith's classroom, cautiously you knocked not wishing to disturb his ramblings about ancient Greece or tudors.
"You may enter. Ah Miss (L/N)? What are you doing here? I- I mean how can I help you?" sadness crept into the edges of John's voice. You avoided his eyes, not wishing to think about dancing with him this morning and the feeling of his mouth against yours.
"William Baker, where is he?" you asked shortly
"Uh, no I believe he isn't attending today," he said leaning over his plinth and running a hand through his slicked down hair. It wasn't him.
"Thank you anyways, sir," you turned and left the room as the ramblings started again
"I'm afraid your son isn't here today. Allow me to escort you to the exit, Mr Baker," you apologised a fake smile plastered to your face, not allowing the man to argue or get into the classroom. He huffed, insisted it was fine and left silently. You wished you could sit in on one of John's lessons, listen to his monologues. They were too similar to the rants the doctor would go on when you caught him discussing an alien planet or a story from centuries ago.
After a mind numbingly boring few hours, the day ended, rushed home, got changed quickly and rushed back out again. The dance hall was busier than usual, when you arrived. You took a seat with Amy and Rory and were handed drinks. You had long calmed down after the events of the morning and simply wanted to drink, dance and smile with your friends and forget about the double life. John had entered the room and sent you a glance, you ignored it and Rory put his arm around you, like a protective big brother. Amy was rambling about a customer from work that day and their miniscule complaints about something, when a man approached your table, you had noticed him around a few times. He was gorgeous, dark brown eyes with freckles covering his face. His eyes seemed slightly dimmer than usual. “Excuse me, miss, sorry, my name’s Tom, I’ve seen you around here for a little while and I’ve always wanted to dance with you, I just never had the courage to ask, until now,” You accepted the invitation. His hand was colder than usual, and from the corner of your eye you watched the man that resembled the doctor shrink slightly in his seat. It’s true, Tom had been observing you and you had wanted to dance with him, if it weren’t for John and the aliens you would’ve asked him yourself.
You laughed and danced together for a few songs, until you had decided to sit back down at the table and Amy handed you another glass of wine, “Well you certainly had a good time, and he was cute, what a positive,” Amy spoke. You all laughed, John approached the table nervously. The laughter died in your throats. He’d dressed differently, rather than the standard longer tie, he’d swapped it for a bowtie and you all went pale upon realising it. “I don’t want to hear whatever you’re about to say unless it’s an apology,” You remarked before you could stop yourself, the wine taking initiative.
“I am deeply sorry, I crossed a line, I’m sorry the adrenaline from last night hadn’t worn off and I just think you’re really beautiful and I thought we’d connected,” he rambled, his hand rubbing the back of his neck “anyway, what I’m trying to say is I’m sorry and I’d like to ask you to dance again, to make up for last time.” Rory shot you a concerned look and you stood up, ready to accept.
The doors swung open. A gang of men entered various voices shouting about an alien, and one of them waving their arms about.
"Everyone get out of here!" you screamed as they ran, "Get him to the school now. It's time for the plan. We need him. I'll follow. School! Now! Go!"
Amy and Rory nodded, pulling John away despite his many protests and attempts to fight back. If you were about to die, you were going to put on a show.
"What are you doing here madam?" One of them spoke
"Oh. Hello. Well you see the thing is I was about to dance with a man i did rather like but unfortunately, he's left now, shame really," you scoffed sarcasm dripping from your words, heart beating out of your chest. A cracking noise erupted from the men. You finally looked at them. Dotted amongst them was Mr Roscoe, Tom, Mr Baker and Edward Gray. Their heads tilted back in unison, as their mouths hung open, eyes now white and pale. The voice spoke. It was low,threatening and heavy.
"Where is the timelord? We can sense the artron energy on you. We are aware of your connections," the voice boomed. It wasn't coming from any of the people, it was simply existing appearing from nowhere as their faces twisted as they appeared to be choking.
"Let them go and we won't have any trouble-" You were cut short by a hard fist colliding with your face, and another in your stomach, and another, and another. Thinking fast you pulled out the sonic screwdriver and pressed a button on it. The men collapsed with a high pitch screech falling from then. Get out, was your only thought. So you did.
You ran, faster than you had ever possibly ran before. You’d reached the school quickly pushing the old oak doors open and slamming them behind you, then you were bombarded by two sets of arms around you
“God, I thought you weren’t going to make it,” Amy cried a few tears on her face.
“With no offence meant, (Y/N), you look terrible,” Rory laughed tensely “I’ll have to look you over in a second, and before you ask, he’s fine and safe, just shaken and concerned about you,”
After Rory had checked you over, you pushed open the door to John’s classroom, he ran to you and tried to hug you
“Beware, I have quite a number of bruises, so I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” you said still rubbing at you split lip
“Oh God, did they do this to you? Are you alright? How could you have been so stupid?” John scalded through tears. He still acted like the doctor despite everything.
“John, I’m fine, it gave you and the others time so it’s ok. We need to barricade the main entrance,” You turned to the others “Pin, glass, soon. Do you have the needle too?” Amy nodded, she handed you a fake watch. More code.
“Great,” You smiled more at the item than her
“What? Why do you keep speaking in code? What is that? What does it mean? (Y/N), I’m tired and I need to know,” John stressed angry tears slipping from his eyes, this was too much for him.
“Hey, shush, it’s ok you’ll find out soon, we just have to get out of this situation and you’ll know all about it.” It technically wasn’t a lie.
“(Y/N), they’re coming,” Rory shouted from the other room. You grabbed John’s shirt in your hands, pulled him towards you, and kissed him, not giving him to process it. It’d seemed more like the doctor rather than the quiet confidence of John. “We’re even now. Don’t tell my friend” A small smile escaped your mouth.
“I promise, I won’t,” He whispered in response, shock still clearly in his system, an awkward laugh breaking the tension. Hopefully he wouldn’t remember. You walked into the hallway, a barricade in full effect “Amy get into the other room, keep him safe, try to convince him to open the watch,” She nodded and headed to the other room.
Rory was handed the fake watch, the needle, and an old antique sword from one of the many walls “Still got it, centurion? I’m going to need you to run as far as you can get that thing away from here, and get them to fight over it and get back here as fast as you can,” He nodded and ran out the back door after saying a brief I love you to Amy. Another antique sword was pulled off the wall by yourself and scabbard disregarded on the floor. There was a brief struggle against the old wooden doors and the barricade before they were smashed open.
“Hello, again, boys,” You smiled, waving the sword in one hand and sonic screwdriver in the other. If you wanted him to live, you had to act like the doctor “So unfortunately, I hate to break it you but if you are looking for the item that we refer to as the needle, it’s travelling as fast as possible in that direction with a 2000 year old roman centurion armed with a sword so unfortunately this detour has been a little bit pointless, I’m afraid dears.”
“You will die soon,” the voice rumbled,
“Will I now? I mean we all will at some point. I will say, however, it’d sound more convincing if I wasn’t a time traveller from the 21st century holding a sword and a powerful scientific device somewhere far beyond this planet, with enough knowledge of this town for you to lose in me for months.”
Their numbers had lowered, there were roughly seven left from the original back of twelve. Edward Gray stood in the centre, his head following your movements. Mr Roscoe was no longer with the group.
“Split up. We’re wasting resources. We’ve already lost some due to the device” The voice rumbled. Four of them including Edward and Henry rushed past you. Their feet dragging slightly along the floor as they ran, their footsteps uneven and heavy. One of the men that you’d seen around town took a step forward, his arm reaching for you, swiping your sword at him, you caught his neck. The body coughed up a blue liquid, mouth still hanging open, as he crumpled. Another ran at you, he thrusted something at you, a sharp pain in your neck. You pressed the sonic and waved it at him, he fell backwards, with a groan. The final man stepped forward, Tom. “Tom stop, fight it, think of your family and your friends, fight-” you were silenced by him slamming you against the wall by your throat. You were caught off guard breathing faltering. Tom grabbed the sword and twisted it towards you, the cool metal catching your skin.“You will die, you will die, you will die,” The voice repeated “insufferable time traveller, you will pay for this,” You screamed, the agony and blood hot. “Amy,” you wheezed, as your vision began to blur from the pressure on your throat. The door swung open, Amy slipped out quietly
“Hey, weirdo! Leave my friend alone,” She shouted her fist colliding with the face knocking him out. Slipping down the wall you gasped, relief and oxygen flooding your system.
“(Y/N), are you ok?” she asked observing the fresh wound
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Go after Rory, a few of them went after him, he needs you,” You explained kicking the sword towards her. Taking the sword in her hands, she nodded and ran. Feebly, you pulled yourself up, putting pressure on your wound as you wobbled into John’s classroom. He was crying slumped against a corner, “Are- Are you alright? Good God! You’re bleeding, did they hurt you? What happened to them?”
“John, dear, I’m fine just little scrapes,” you whisper kneeling down to his level your voice still weak “You’ll understand in a bit, we just need to do something first,”
“Amelia, already tried to convince me. I- I- I don’t want to open it. (Y/N), I don’t want whatever that was to be the normal for me, I’m scared, and I know that watch has something to do with it” He cried
“I know, it’s terrifying, but it’s the perception filter, making you think that,”
“And- And there you go again, nonsense words, unfathomable concepts. I heard what you said, the 21st century, the future, the amount of pain you must have seen. Do you think I hadn’t noticed the pain and loss in your eyes? I’m not your old friend, I’m John Smith, I’m a teacher here. Whoever you think I am, I can assure you I’m not,” You patted his arm, “I’m sorry you need to open it. I’m so sorry. I want to help but this is the only way I can” He looked between you and the watch, he cupped your face nervously and paused for a second, you nodded. Your lips gently collided.
“John, dear, I’m sorry,” You mumbled into his lips after a few calming kisses. He turned to the watch, you pushed yourself up and walked to the other side of the room. He turned the watch in his hands examining it gently
“I’ve loved you since I met you. You are beautiful, intelligent, and amazing. Maybe in another life,it might’ve worked out for us,” He looked up at you, tears still falling.
You opened your mouth to speak as the watch flicked open, you heard the man scream first, then windows shattering, squinting in an attempt to see him despite the golden light filling the room. Glass flew everywhere, wind bursting into the room. Eventually screaming stopped and so did the light. He fell to his knees with a thud.
“I’m back,” he mumbled his head slamming forward, the final wisps of gold light dissipating. Panic struck his face as he saw you.
PART 3
#doctor who x reader#doctor who x you#11th doctor x reader#11th doctor x you#11th doctor#eleven x reader#Eleventh doctor x reader#self insert#self insert doctor who#self insert fanfiction#Doctor who#doctor who fanfic#doctor who fanfiction
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Granada Holmes (series review)
The 1984-1994 Granada series of Sherlock Holmes adaptations, starring Jeremy Brett as Holmes are regarded by fans as a milestone among the many adaptations of Sherlock Holmes that were made. Brett is said to be “the definitive Holmes”. And I would largely agree with that, despite it not being my favourite version, and it having some flaws and weak episodes, especially as the series went on.
The first thing that set this show apart is that it went back to the original stories and adapted those. Now, it isn’t the first version to do so, as some people (including Brett, apparently) claim. The 1920s silent film series with Eille Norwood was fairly canon accurate, and the 1960s BBC tv series with Douglas Wilmer and Peter Cushing also followed the canon. There is also the 1979-1986 Soviet Russian series with Vasily Livanov. And on radio you have more canonical dramatizations, such as the British John Gielgud 1950s series and the BBC Carleton Hobbs series from the 50s and 60s. People have an unfortunate tendency to ignore radio in favour of screen adaptations.
Still, it must be granted that Granada at its best is probably the supreme screen adaptation of the canon. The production values and acting are far superior to what the 60s BBC tv series had.
Jeremy Brett was a revolution in Holmes performances. The previous era defining Holmes, Basil Rathbone, as great as he was, made Holmes into too much of a straightforward hero. Brett brought back the eccentricities (including the drug use), the nervous energy and the character’s general moodiness and emotionality that was there in the text.
Holmes in the Granada series was ultimately on the side of good and a benevolent figure (if occasionally rude), but fictional justice perhaps had never an odder champion. He did everything from sitting weirdly, jumping over couches to taking drugs. Holmes felt neurodiverse, and indeed Brett used his own experiences with bipolar disorder in the performance. And it was true to canon, in a way we seldom had seen on screen before.
Jeremy Brett’s performance as Holmes is extremely influential and often imitated by later screen adaptations, but has never been surpassed. The portrayal of Holmes in BBC Sherlock and the movies with Robert Downey Jr. is clearly inspired by Brett’s nervy eccentric genius Holmes, but ends up a bad parody. Holmes in the Granada series can like his canon counterpart occasionally be rude or careless towards other, but it was lapses, not a general trend. They seemed to be caused by an eccentric brain on another wavelength from the people around him, rather than any malevolence. Holmes in BBC Sherlock is a male nerd wish-fulfilment fantasy, where the character’s eccentric genius are allowed to excuse any crimes.
At its height, Brett’s Holmes is an awe-inspiring performance, with the actor pouring everything of his skill and energy into it. You could criticize it as melodramatic over-acting, but it makes for great viewing and fits the man who said “I never can resist a touch of the dramatic”.
The Granada series gets much credit for rehabilitating the role of Watson. Both of the actors playing him depicted as very much intelligent and capable. It is somewhat overstated of course, the turning away from the comedic figure Nigel Bruce portrayed started already with Andre Morell’s Watson in the 1959 Hammer Hound of the Baskervilles. Still, the Watson depicted by the Granada series is still one of the show’s chief draws.
The series had a switch in the actors playing Watson, with David Burke portraying him in the first two seasons of 13 episodes and The Empty House featuring Holmes return to a Watson portrayed by Edward Hardwicke. And honestly it is hard to choose between them, because they are both great and there is a consistency in the writing that makes them feel like the same basic character.
Burke’s Watson comes across as younger and more energetic of the two actors and has perhaps the better comedic dynamic with Holmes. He is perhaps my pick, as despite his actual age while playing the part, he feels closer to the young Watson of the canon.
But that is no serious slight against Hardwicke’s performance, which is still first-rate. Hardwicke’s Watson feels older, despite the difference in age between the actors being but a few years. The performance is also defined by an effortless charm and warmth, giving Watson an avuncular aura. But Watson is not at all infirm and is still an intelligent medical man and an experienced soldier, ever ready with his revolver.
An interesting change from the Canonical stories is that Watson never gets married and moves out of Baker Street. The Sign of the Four features Mary Morstan, but at the end she walks out of the story without any romance between her and Doctor Watson. The reason this was done, is that it simplifies the set-up of the stories. With Watson in 221B, he is always on hand to join Holmes. No need for a scene at the beginning of Holmes taking Watson away from wife and practice. Also it saves them keeping track of when Watson was married or not, something that Conan Doyle himself got into a serious continuity tangle about.
As producer Michael Cox (quoted in David Stuart Davies’s book Starring Sherlock Holmes) noted, Conan Doyle himself probably regretted marrying off Watson, considering The Empty House has Watson suffering from a “sad bereavement” and then moving back in with Holmes. So it is a very much acceptable deviation from canon.
It also frees the writers to focus on the most important relationship in the canon: the friendship between Holmes and Watson. The canon has been called “a textbook of friendship” by Christopher Morley, and the chemistry and relationship between Holmes and Watson is vitally important to any adaptation. And that aspect of the stories is wonderfully conveyed here, with both actors playing Watson working together with Brett as Holmes well to convey the odd but close friendship between the two men.
Rosalie Williams plays Mrs. Hudson, and she is excellent in the role. The Granada series has a lot of little scenes of Mrs. Hudson added into the canonical cases, and they work excellently, giving her more of a presence. Many of them are comedic, making jokes about how a difficult and eccentric lodger Holmes is, but there is a clear undercurrent of affection throughout their interactions.
The recurring cast members include Charles Gray as Mycroft Holmes and Colin Jeavons as Inspector Lestrade.
Gray as Mycroft is close to ideal, fitting the character of the overweight, lazy and intelligent canon character perfectly. He was such a good fit for the role that he had actually earlier played the part in the film adaptation of The Seven-Per-Cent Solution.
Jeavons fit the part of Lestrade and his acting is superb, capable of showing the full extent of Lestrade’s character, having both smug over-confidence at times, yet also having genuine respect and affection for Holmes.
The acting skills of the actors playing characters who only appear in one episode is also generally very high. And that is part of the general high quality of execution the show had for most of its run. The period sets and the directing was of a similar high standard. The music by Patrick Gowers is excellent, and I suggest any fan take a listen to this Youtube playlist of his soundtrack.
The scripts are quite excellent, for the most part sticking close to the Conan Doyle stories. Of course there are always infidelities here and there, and sometimes the episode would go on non-canonical tangents.
Usually it was to make the story work better on screen. For example, the villains in The Greek Interpreter escape from Holmes and Watson, ending up being killed “off-screen” as it were. So the Granada version of the same tale has a non-canonical ending of Holmes, Watson and Mycroft confronting the villains on a train, something that works rather well. Another example is The Musgrave Ritual which entirely ditches the original story’s framing device of Holmes telling Watson the story of an early case of his. In the Granada version Watson is with Holmes on this case, and it works better that way.
And with all of these elements working together, for most of its run, the Granada series is perhaps the definitive screen adaptation of Sherlock Holmes. The first four seasons of 50 minute episodes, which were broadcast under the titles of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and The Return of Sherlock Holmes from 1984-1988 plus the feature length adaptation of The Sign of Four are pretty much all great. It went from strength to strength, consistently making very well-made adaptations of the canon.
The Sign of Four is probably a good pick for Granada’s peak, due to its epic nature. And it is definitely the best of the five feature-length films they did. Outside of leaving out any romance between John and Mary, the film is faithful to the book, although it goes too far in that direction in keeping in the racism of the story. But it also has all of the book’s virtues as a story too, and fine acting from Brett, Hardwicke, and John Thaw as Jonathan Small make for an enjoyable viewing experience.
There was however a decline in the series later years. The lynchpin of the series was Jeremy Brett, and his health began to seriously fail him by 1987, leading to his death in 199 (my source of information on Brett’s health decline and general behind the scenes things is mostly Davies’s book Starring Sherlock Holmes) Once lean and looking remarkably like the Sidney Paget illustrations of Holmes, his conflicting medications for his heart problems and bipolar disorder caused him to retain water and bloat, causing him to no longer look like the lean figure he once was. His looks wasn’t really the problem, what was however was that his health problems drained him of the energy that he once was able to put it into his performance, creating through no fault of his own a more lethargic and weaker Holmes.
There was also a growing lack of care shown towards the series by Granada itself. The budgets began to shrink by 1988, and while the series looked good for the most part, it did impact the show.
Probably the first disappointing episode is the double-length adaptation of The Hound of the Baskervilles from 1988. You would expect the Granada series, with their excellent leads and excellent track record up to this point, to create the definitive version of this often-filmed story, but it just isn’t. It isn’t bad, but it is ultimately mediocre in a way that is hard to pinpoint. My guess is that the direction and cinematography doesn’t manage to create the suspense the story needs, resulting in a slow-paced and slightly boring experience.
It also ends up show-casing the problems the show would now begin to have, with the production crew not having the money to do location shooting on Dartmoor and Brett obviously showing the signs of his failing health.
The Hound film was followed by a season of six 50-minute length episodes, called The Case-book of Sherlock Holmes. And these were mostly fine, considering the circumstances. The budget had been reduced compared to earlier seasons and you could tell the writers sometimes lacked a first-rate canonical story to adapt.
There were one or two weaker episodes, but those were due to the original story being weak. For example, the season ended with a faithful adaptation of The Creeping Man and it is as good and well-made a tv adaptation you could ever hope to make with such a bizarre plot. The result is of course pure camp, but so is the original story. When the show had a good Conan Doyle story to adapt, like The Boscombe Valley Mystery, The Problem of Thor Bridge or The Illustrious Client, the results are indeed up to the standards of its past.
The real nadir of the series came later, however, when in 1992-93 the series decided to do three double-length episodes. Granada wanted the Holmes series to copy the success of Inspector Morse and its 100 minute tv film format. The problem was the show would still adapt Conan Doyle’s short stories into a format that was far too long for them. So the scriptwriters had to pad the stories out with their own inventions.
This sort of worked for the first film of these three films, The Master Blackmailer. It was based on Charles Augustus Milverton, which is one of the shortest stories in the canon, but one of the most rich in dramatic potential. Writer Jeremy Paul’s script decided to show in detail what is merely mentioned in the story, such as Milverton blackmailing people and Holmes courting Milverton’s maid in order to gain access to his home. The end result works, it is somewhat slow-paced but is ultimately coherent and at its best feels like you are watching the backstory to the canonical events.
The same can’t be said for the second and third of these films, The Last Vampyre and The Eligible Bachelor. The Last Vampyre is an almost completely incoherent non-adaptation of The Sussex Vampire, where elements from the canonical story probably make up less than 5% of the resulting film. There is an attempt to create intrigue and suspense around the original character Stockton, but the film is so vague about what he is and what threat he poses that the resulting film makes no sense.
The Eligible Bachelor is a similar adaptation of The Noble Bachelor, where the canonical story elements that remain is entirely subsided by a new bizarre plot where Lord St. Simon is now a ruthless Bluebeard-like villain. It is slightly better than The Last Vampyre, simply because the villain here poses an identifiable and somewhat coherent threat. Still, the film has to pad things out with bizarre subplots, like Holmes having prophetic dreams, which ultimately doesn’t lead anywhere.
Wisely, the series returned to the 50 minute format for the last season of six episodes, which aired in 1994, under the name of “he Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. It was with this season Jeremy Brett’s health problems and the lower budgets really began to seriously affect the show. Brett was in a bad state at this point, and the description of the production in Davies’s book makes for sad reading.
During the filming of one episode in this season, The Three Gables, he had to use a wheelchair between takes and supplementary oxygen to ease his breathing. His performance is naturally lacking in the energy he once had, but the fact it is a performance at all is testament to his commitment. The Three Gables is actually one of the better episodes of this season, as it actually manages to improve on one of the weakest stories in the canon.
Edward Hardwicke was unavailable to film The Golden Pince-nez, and they couldn’t re-schedule the shooting dates (which I suspect was a budget issue). So the writer wrote out Watson and replaced him in the role of Sherlock’s assistant with Mycroft, since Charles Gray was available. The result is well-made otherwise, with guest stars Frank Finlay and Anna Carteret giving great performances, but the lack of Watson is sorely felt. It is fun to see Charles Gray’s Mycroft again, but it feels contrary to his character to accompany his brother like this.
And before he could film The Mazarin Stone, Brett’s health gave out on him and he was hospitalized. Again Charles Gray was called in by the producer to play Mycroft as a substitute. It is nice to see Mycroft for a fourth time, but Mycroft doing this doesn’t feel true to his character. And this episode is one of the weakest in the series, due to the script. Not that I blame the scriptwriter too much, The Mazarin Stone is one of the worst stories in the canon. The efforts to improve on the story by combining it with another weak story The Three Garridebs don’t at all manage to rescue it.
However, there are still some rather good episodes in this season . The Red Circle is good and The last ever episode of the series, The Cardboard box manages to close out the series on a good if dark note.
Jeremy Brett died in 1995 due to heart failure, ending all hope of any future series.
I might have delved too much on the series failures in this essay. Because all of that is outweighed by the consistent high quality the series managed to achieve in the first four seasons, and with a few failures, still managed to sometimes achieve again in the later ones. Those adaptations are perhaps the peak of Holmes on screen.
It is not my favourite adaptation, that is the BBC radio drama versions made starring Clive Merrison as Holmes from 1989 to 2010. Those were just as consistently good, with Merrison and Williams/Sachs as Holmes and Watson being on the same general level as Brett and Burke/Hardwicke as performances. In fact, the BBC version is more consistent, never going off the rails as the Granada version sometimes, and it actually managed to achieve the goal Brett had hoped for: adapting every canonical story.
Still that doesn’t take away from Granada’s great achievement in adapting the Holmes stories with such quality. It is an achievement that later movie and tv adaptations haven’t been able to surpass.
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Watch Dogs: Legion x AmRev
@burgoyned Chapter 5 is here! Any feedback would be appreciated ^^
Chapter 5: Cruel Britannia
“One Miami Vice coming your way!” Hanger exclaimed, sliding the drink down the counter. Burgoyne caught it, and immediately chugged it. Clinton sat on his left side while Howe sat on his right. Neither was drinking anything fancy. Staring at his whiskey, Clinton turned to Hanger. “Anything new happening while we were gone?” he asked. The bartender shook his head. “Besides a few Albion workers sliding in and out nothing new.” “Damn, why are there so many of them?” Burgoyne inquired, looking around the bar. Howe chugged his vodka before pulling out his phone. Damn nothing. He put his phone back. I guess he is no longer speaking to me.
William only remembered arguing with his brother the day after the incident happened. Neither of them was certain what has happened, but he just remembered, after talking to their mother, his brother cut all forms of contact with him. “Caroline is DEAD, William! What made you think she could have survived an attack like that?!” He could be correct. Tapping his shot glass, Howe slid off from his spot and walked back to the Safehouse. “Where are you going?” Hanger said as he took Howe’s shot glass. “Gonna run some errands and ask Bagley a favor,” Howe responded as he inputs the passcode and walked into the room. Making his down to the main room, he found Bagley quietly humming to himself while André repaired the destroyed Spiderbot. “Goddammit, is this bent?” the hacker muttered to himself, in the meantime looking at the burnt part. Bagley spoke up, “Why hello Billy. Here to tell me more of your ‘fanciful’ stories?” “I got none so far. Listen, I need a favor to ask from you.” “Why certainly. Is it a location to the nearest strip club? There is plenty of that lined near Piccadilly Circus.”
“NO BAGLEY!” Howe took a deep breath. Before he could respond, Clinton and Burgoyne walked into the room. André got from his desk and gave the Spiderbot to Clinton. “I tried to repair the thing as much as I could, but sadly it appears to damaged to recover anything.” “Damn. That’s a shame.” “Not quite. That might be one of the Spiderbots destroyed in the explosion. There is however another one sitting inside New Scotland Yard,” Bagley said as he pulled up the map of Central London. A yellow dot indicated the Metropolitan Police Station. “Judging from the explosions that night, I have a feeling there has to be at least one of these Spiderbots that survived the explosion. Perhaps we can make it a mission to recover it.” The men looked at each other. Howe finally spoke up. “Yes, here is the thing Bagley…and to everyone else,” he paused, trying to clear his mind. “My sister…Caroline…was near the site when the explosion occurred…I don’t know if she is dead or alive but…my brother believes she is and won’t speak to me.”
“Whaaatt? Won’t speak to you? That is rough,” said Burgoyne as he patted his friend on the shoulder. Clinton cocked his head. “Wait, are you talking about George? Isn’t he out of the country right now?” “No, I mean Richard. He’s….” “OOHHH ok. But why won’t he speak to you?” Howe stared at the couch. “He cares deeply about Caroline. I do too. I just have a feeling that she might have survived the explosion, but Richard was certain she was dead and we both had an argument over it.” He looked back at these friends, his brown eyes glistening with tears. There was a long silence, a silent where you can hear only the machines hum. Bagley finally broke the silence. “My condolences, William. You believe she might still be alive. I’m sending the location to New Scotland Yard to your phones. You can find every detail of the victims that were present at the explosion site inside.” “Thank you Bagley. I suppose this means we head out?” Howe asked everyone.
“Indeed. I’ll stay here and monitor from behind with André,” Clinton said. “Looks we’re heading out, John.” Howe turned to leave for the exit. “Wait do you have a mask?” Burgoyne asked him as he held up his. The fighter held up his. It was a blue and purple striped skull with a blue ring on the crown sewn onto a gray mesh. “Found this in a crate outside the stadium.” “Then ALLONS-Y!” Burgoyne proclaimed. The two men left the Safehouse and entered the pub, which was now crowded with customers. Hanger was too busy behind the bar pouring drinks for those sitting at the counter to notice the Operators leaving The Earl’s Fortune. Burgoyne flagged down a car with his phone. “So nice to be able to hack vehicles with a click on the phone, don’t you think?” glimmered the playwriter as he slid into the driver’s side. Howe took the passenger seat next to him. “I suppose, although the advancement of technology does scare me.” “Oh, you’re one of those. Ok, I see.” Burgoyne clicked in his seatbelt. Howe did the same. Bagley pinged their earpiece. “I’ve marked the road leading to the station. Do be careful, Albion is on high alert today.” “Will do. Thanks, Bagley,” Burgoyne answered as he shifted the car into drive and drove off.
It was mid-morning when the men arrived at the Metropolitan Police Station. Burgoyne parked their car away from the prying eyes of Albion guards and police stationed outside. Turning to his friend, the playwriter whispered, “Feeling ready?” Howe nodded, slipping his “Ded Coronation” mask on. Burgoyne slipped on his “Knight of Avalon” mask and the two exited their car and proceeded towards the police station. The men slipped into an alleyway across the station. Pulling out his phone, Howe hacked into the nearest surveillance camera. From the camera’s point of view, the men could see the main entrance of New Scotland Yard. A security checkpoint was on while behind the machine a man stood behind the counter. On the left side, a waiting room was devoid of any people where only the news was playing on the TV.
Panning to the right, Howe and Burgoyne saw stairs leading to the second floor. Howe hacked the camera on the second-floor hallway and scanned the room. Burgoyne whispered, “I think we might be in the right area. Keep searching.” The fighter began hacking all the second-floor cameras until he hacked one located inside a secure area. Bagley pinged. “There it is. Now hack the Spiderbot and get it outside the contained area. Make sure no one sees you. And also the laptop holds information of all the victims recorded. Do hack that in the meantime.” “Roger that,” Howe responded. Burgoyne tugged at his phone. “Let me show you something cool.” Howe handed over his phone. The playwriter pointed the camera right at the Spiderbot and pressed the screen. Immediately the Spiderbot stood up but began to wobble. One of the legs was breaking off from the mainframe and wires were exposed. Yet it was still operatable.
“To knock two birds with one stone,” Burgoyne gloated, controlling the Spiderbot to the laptop. The phone pinged, signaling the downloadable data. Burgoyne pressed the screen again, and the Spiderbot began downloading all the data from the laptop and transferred it straight to the phone. Feeling smug, Burgoyne turned to Howe. “ ’Technology scares me’ and here I just proved to you that technology is here to stay, so you’ll have to accept it.” He could sense Howe’s expression of distaste behind the mask but was fascinated by it all. Bagley spoke through the earpiece. “Fantastic! I’ve received all the data from the laptop. Let’s see……’ Caroline’ is not found in the list of deceased. However, that doesn’t prove anything yet. You’ll need to find the hospital records to confirm it. For now, return to base with the Spiderbot.” “Yes sir. Thank you Bagley.” William felt his heart beat faster. Caroline isn’t dead but I still need the hospital records to prove it.
As he reveled in the thought of his sister being alive, Burgoyne successfully navigated the Spiderbot through the ctOS vent. The bot exited from the side entrance of the New Scotland Yard. “Give me one second,” Burgoyne hissed, passing the phone back to Howe. He watched as his friend ran across the road and slip into the driveway. It only took a few minutes before Burgoyne slips back with the Spiderbot in hand. He beckoned Howe from their hiding spot before running to the driver’s seat. Howe jumped into the passenger seat right as an Albion guard began suspecting their activity and proceeded to approach their car. Just as he was about to tap on the driver's window, Burgoyne rolled down the window and shot the guard with his pistol, much to Howe’s surprise. Two Albion guards nearby heard the shot and ran over. Howe panicked. “GO! GO!” he shouted. Pushing on the gas pedal, Burgoyne booked the car out from their location right as fighter drones were called.
After dodging the police and Albion for some time, the men finally arrived at The Earl’s Fortune. Howe gasped for air from nearly suffering a panic attack. “Next time…let me handle it…” “Mhmm, sure.” Burgoyne exited the car with the bot in hand. Exiting out of the car, Howe walked into the pub. It wasn’t as crowded as it was in the morning, but it was still buzzing with patrons. Hanger was busy chatting with one of the patrons at the bar, so the men slipped into the Safehouse. Clinton greeted them as they arrived. “Well, I don’t know what you pulled out there so I hope it was worth it,” he scolded them. Burgoyne handed the Spiderbot to André, who took the bot and proceeded to repair it. Bagley laughed. “I must admit, watching how each of you operates brings tears to my eyes.” “You don’t have eyes, Bagley,” Burgoyne pointed. “No, but I certainly don’t have ‘fanciful’ imaginations.” “HEY!” Howe and Burgoyne protested together. Bagley snickered, and the men shook their heads. Nevertheless, it was a successful mission. Mission Complete.
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“Unshaken” Chapter 10
Originally posted: June 8, 2020
Arthur Morgan x Reader, Slow-Burn Romance
Summary: You save a mysterious man who is dying on a mountain. Finding out he has Tuberculosis, you use your knowledge and skills with herbs and natural remedies to save him from death and help nurse him back to health. As he slowly starts to recover, you can’t help but wonder: Who is this man? Why had you found him the way that you did, beaten and ill? Only time, patience … and perhaps love … will tell.
•••••
The first mile was peaceful, and Arthur looked around as the wagon strolled down a narrow dirt path through the thick forest. The trees were tall, the hilly landscape like the huge waves of the ocean. His heart almost skipped a beat when he recalled those monstrous walls of water when he was on board that ship. Never again was he ever going on another damn boat as long as he lived.
He took in a deep breath, the smell and feel of the fresh forest air overcoming and relaxing his senses. It felt so good to be out in the wild again, he had to admit. He’d actually found himself missing the familiar scent of wilderness, reminding him of all those nights when he’d been out on his own, hunting, camping, whatever the hell he felt like doing.
Arthur almost laughed to himself then.
He was still here … still alive … still breathing … And the rest of the world believed he was dead, including his old friends — or what was left of them. Anger began to simmer deep within his gut at the thought of Dutch, Micah’s betrayal, what they’d done to him and John, the rest of the gang. He squeezed his eyes shut, lifting his hand to tug at the brim of his new hat, trying to find comfort in the new gift. All he could tell himself was that Marston was safe. The boy was an idiot, sure, but when it came to his family and their safety, Arthur knew nothing would stand in John’s way.
A gentle gust of wind hit him, blowing back his hair and cooling what little heat had begun to grow in his cheeks from the anger he felt. Arthur let out a sigh, allowing the cool feeling to seep into his skin. Looking around, he took in the surrounding views. He knew he was somewhere far north of Roanoke Ridge, but he’d never been up this far before Y/N and Austin had taken him in.
The place was beautiful, he thought, taking in the towering trees around them. He’d learned a few interesting terms from Y/N’s herbalist books. He’d been drawn to those bookshelves of hers many times while he’d been cooped up in that cabin, if only to avoid dying from boredom rather than Tuberculosis. Turned out he’d ended up drawn to the knowledge.
There were so many kinds of trees he could now identify— Spruce, Cedars, Pines, Oaks, and very many Sequoia trees. These trees were extremely tall, forming a thick canopy of leaves far overhead, the sunshine piercing through them in rays, hitting the ground with glowing warm light.
The air smelled so fresh as well, and Arthur took in another deep breath, relishing the real cool feeling in his lungs and the fresh and unique smells around him. There was so much plant life growing up here, all kinds of colorful flowers and foliage dotting the thick green grass everywhere. Damn, this area was gorgeous.
Arthur reached up again and stroked the feather on his hat gently, the bristles soft as, well, a feather. He gripped the crown and took the hat off, lowering it to his lap so he could examine it further. The black leather was worn, but genuine, and he could tell it was made from real cowhide, examining the hundreds of skin pores scattered all over. He ran a finger over the brown braided leather tied around the crown of the hat, similar to how his father’s hat had the looped rope. The texture was rough, but also soft, little furs sticking up here and there from years of use.
Then Arthur looked at the feather, and he squinted, his brows drawing down tight as he stroked the thing with the tip of his finger. It was that of a great-horned owl, a primary feather from the wing, the black and gold colored stripes giving away its identity. He wondered, then … why an owl feather? Maybe it was just something her grandfather hadn’t thought much about, but sometimes a certain kind of bird feather in a cowboy’s hat had a meaning behind it.
Thinking back, he recalled Y/N telling him that her grandfather hadn’t lived ‘the best life.’ That he’d been some kind of wanderer. Arthur found himself being curious as to what exactly she had meant. A wanderer?
What kind of life had the old man lived that had her hesitating to tell him the whole story? And what of the feather?
A cough escaped him, and he lifted a had to cover his mouth, clearing his throat then.
Austin looked over at him with curious eyes, “You alright, cowpoke?”
Arthur couldn’t help but give a small smile as he turned his head to face the young man, narrowing his eyes at him, “I’m just fine, little feller, how ’bout yourself?”
The brother narrowed his eyes in return, showing that he was clearly offended by the term Arthur had used on him, “I ain’t ‘little.’”
Arthur laughed, “Why, sure you is, little feller. As long as you call me a cowpoke, I’ll keep callin’ you little. Sound fair?”
Austin grunted, “Not really.” He reached up to scratch at his cheek, then added, “But you kinda do strike me as a cowpoke.”
“Well, you strike me as little, boah,” Arthur said with a grin, his voice a low rough tone as he patted his chest with an open palm, “And it’ll be much worse if you ain’t careful, son.”
Austin grunted, letting out a huff as if he wasn’t amused with Arthur’s teasing in the least.
Several more moments of silence passed, and Arthur gently placed the hat back on his head.
“So she decided to give you our grandfather’s hat, huh?” Austin asked, his voice sounding a bit sour as he cracked the reins again.
Arthur looked over at him, noting the expression the boy had on his face. He didn’t look angry, exactly, but from his eyes Arthur could tell there was some kind of story. “What do you mean?” He asked.
Austin let out a long sigh, “Well, I know she told you it belonged to our grandfather, and he weren’t the best man when he was alive. I never wanted to touch the damn thing after he died.” He lifted his eyes to meet Arthur’s, “Kinda feels weird that you’re wearin’ it, s’all.”
Arthur took that moment as a chance to find out what he could, maybe the brother could give him some of the information he’d been wondering about. “Who was he?”
Austin let out a sarcastic laugh, “I don’t think that’s for me to say. If she didn’t tell you, I don’t think I should be the one to do so.”
Arthur’s natural instinct would’ve been to reach out and choke the bastard to get the information he wanted. It was a feeling he was used to whenever assholes gave him a hard time, but he could respect the brother for looking after his sister.
Another curious thought occurred to him then, and he couldn’t help but ask, “What were y’all doin’ before you found me up on that mountain?”
He could see Austin freeze up at the question, and the young man turned his gaze over to look at him, “You mean that night? We were travelin’ back from Emerald Ranch. Y/N needed to do a trade for some of the supplies we needed for the horses. We have a few contacts scattered here and there for supplies we need that we can’t get up here, and sometimes we need to travel a ways to get them.
“We were supposed to arrive home sometime in the late evening, but we ran into this strange man on the road. He looked odd, short gray dreads, green bandana around his head, weird old clothing. Said his name was William.”
Arthur stilled at that.
“But anyhow,” Austin continued, not noticing that Arthur had suddenly froze, “he was camping out on the side of the road near Moonstone Pond, and he had all these strange plants he seemed to be workin’ with. Of course, it grabbed Y/N’s attention and he invited us over, so she and I stopped to chat with him for a while.” Austin chuckled as he recalled the memory, “What was supposed to be a small chat ended up bein’ a two-hour conversation. I didn’t really listen to what they were sayin’ since I was wrapped up in a book I’ve been readin’. Eventually I had to pull her away since it was gettin’ late.
“When we were just about to leave, she mentioned a special plant that grew over by O’Creagh’s Run, must’ve been somethin’ they were talkin’ about earlier. I was about to say no, but she gave me this look. She has this thing that she does with her eyes, drives me crazy ’cuz I can’t turn her down when she does it.
“So we headed over there, and I stopped the wagon by the small lake so she could explore the area. I just hung out under a tree with my book to pass the time … That’s when we heard the sounds.”
Arthur lifted his head and narrowed his eyes, “Sounds?”
“Gunshots, shoutin’ — We was goin’ to leave the area as quickly as possible, but — well, Y/N could hear the struggles, fighting, a man in pain, and she couldn’t stop herself.” Austin paused, as if he were deep in thought, “We saw someone runnin’ away from the mountain before they disappeared into the trees. I didn’t really get a good look at the man, but it looked like he had dirty, long blonde hair … someone you knew?”
The fury that suddenly welled in Arthur’s chest didn’t surprise him in the least damn bit.
Micah.
That damned rat.
The rat that weaseled his way in and ultimately destroyed the Van Der Linde gang in such a short amount of time.
Twenty goddamned years of loyalty and service to Dutch, and the old fool had decided to listen and believe someone who’d just joined the gang not half a year ago, a man who’d only been out for himself in the end … Just like Dutch …
“Arthur?”
Austin’s voice interrupted Arthur’s thoughts and snapped him back to reality. “Yeah, sorry ’bout that, kid. Just thinkin’.”
Austin seemed to have picked up on Arthur’s mood, no doubt from the gravel Arthur felt in his throat from the emotion that had just been about to take him over. He couldn’t dwell on such things, not right now. What good did it do?
At that moment another thought occurred to him, “You didn’t want Y/N takin’ me in, did you?” He stated it as fact since he knew the answer, but he found himself wanting to hear what Austin’s response would be.
The boy chuckled darkly, looking straight ahead at the narrow dirt trail. “Honestly, when we heard the gunshots, I thought it was going to be a trap, an ambush of some kind. But Y/N … When we reached that mountain and found you laying on that rock, it was like she didn’t care about anythin’ else in the world but you.” He cleared his throat, “The whole time I was worried that she was going to get herself killed, being so close to a stranger. I feared that something terrible would happen, like you would have a knife hidden on you, or a friend of yours would come leaping out of a hiding spot and shoot her dead.” Austin lowered his head, looking down at his lap as if lost in thought, “To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I would’ve done had that been the case. Y/N is my whole world right now, and she matters to me more than anythin’ else in my pathetic life.”
Arthur’s eyes softened, almost finding himself sympathizing with the poor boy, but he continued to listen.
“When she insisted on taking you to our cabin, I nearly lost it. Watching her take you in and nurse you back to health every day, I couldn’t help but fear for the worst. I still thought you had something evil planned. Some monsters would go to any length to take advantage and trick people like us to get what they want, even if it’s hurtin’ one of their own.”
The boy was smart, Arthur admitted to himself. There were definitely men like that out there, and he should damn well know.
“But when she mentioned you had Tuberculosis, and I began seeing the signs from you, how truly sick you were — I guess … Well, I guess I noticed how stupid I was bein’ at that point — but I was too proud to admit it.
“After you showed your skills with the gun, I realized you could’ve killed us both whenever you wanted long before that point. The thought was scary, of course, but finally seeing that all you needed was a gun or your bare hands to take us both out and you never did? Well, I guess you can say my stupidity wore off a lil’ bit at that point.”
Arthur grinned, amused with Austin’s confession at how much of an idiot he had been for all the trouble he’d given him.
But could he fully blame Austin? The boy was just looking after his sister, and Arthur couldn’t do nothing but respect him for it. “Don’t hurt yourself too much over it, boah. You’re just lookin’ after her, I understand. In fact,” he leaned back and rolled his shoulders, stretching out the tension in his back, “I kinda like that.”
Austin acknowledged his statement with a small nod and a smile. “I love her, I really do. She’s family, and the most wonderful person I know.” He narrowed his eyes at Arthur and teased, “If you ever hurt her, though, I’ll make sure to shoot you square in the chest, got it?”
Arthur threw back his head and laughed at the threat, “If you say so. But don’t you worry — I ain’t got plans for that.” The fact that the young man had the courage to actually threaten him was truly entertaining, and Arthur couldn’t help but note how much smaller the man actually was compared to him. Arthur had a good six inches on him in height, and a whole lot more muscle, despite the fact that he was still sick. The boy worked hard, but they clearly didn’t eat enough for him to gain a whole lot of meat on his bones. He was about as contrasted as he could be compared to Arthur.
He was grateful Austin had finally swallowed his pride down enough in order to ask him how to hunt. They truly did need it, and he would do his best to teach them. It was the least he could do for him and his sister after everything they’d done for him.
The next several moments were quiet, minus the sound of Lily’s hooves hitting the ground and the tittering of birds high up in the trees.
“So what’s it like livin’ up here?” Arthur asked. “It don’t seem too bad.”
“It ain’t,” Austin replied with a shrug, “It was tough for the first few months, but we managed. Built ourselves a camp, then eventually built ourselves a cabin — then the stables for the horses and other animals.” He cleared his throat, “Of course it’s been hard, what with my lack of huntin’ skills, but Y/N absolutely loves it. She enjoys bein’ surrounded by all the wildlife and plants.”
Arthur found himself suddenly more invested, wanting to know more about Y/N and her passions. “And her garden?”
“She’s been in love with flowers since she was a tiny thing. When we came up here, she brought a few supplies that belonged to our mother, and she got to work on that garden right away.” He let out a small laugh, “What started as a small batch of flowers and herbs turned into a small estate of all kinds of plants. She’s been finding different herbs all over the place and replanting them here for the past three years. Every month it gets larger and larger. I’ll admit, it looks pretty damn beautiful.”
Arthur grinned. “That is does,” he agreed with a nod. It did indeed, Y/N’s garden was a pretty good size, and the colorful shrubbery was a marvel to look at, truthfully. He’d been able to see it out through one of the windows as he’d been recovering on that couch all that time …
“So how are you feeling, Arthur?” Austin asked, breaking the silence.
Arthur turned his head to look at him, “What?”
Austin lifted a hand to point at his chest, “Your TB, you were coughing a bit earlier, just checking to see how you’re feelin’ now?”
Arthur rubbed his own palm over his chest, “I’m just fine, you’re sister’s got some healin’ magic goin’ on with those herbs of hers.”
The boy’s laugh was loud and sharp, “Y/N has a talent with nature, that’s for damn sure. I swear she may be Mother Nature herself.”
The two men’s laughter echoed through the trees as they travelled further down the trail. A squirrel skittered across the ground, and Arthur watched it disappear into the thick foliage on the other side.
More time passed, until finally they reached a small clearing. Arthur lifted his finger to point over to a small grassy area. “That’s a good spot to start.”
Austin pulled back the reins until Lily stopped, bringing the wagon to a halt. He looked over to where he was pointing and lifted a brow, “Really? Doesn’t seem like the kind of spot wildlife would be, it’s too open.”
Arthur gave him a bewildered look. “Wildlife don’t always need to be in a particular spot in order for you to track ’em, Austin.” He said, his drawl annoyed, letting the young man know through his tone that what Austin had stated was completely idiotic. He got up and climbed down out of the wagon, walking towards the small patch, “This area’s got plenty of plant-life, tellin’ you it’s a good spot to start pickin’ up trails.” He narrowed his eyes as he placed his hands on his belt, turning his head as he took in the surrounding forest. “It’s perfect for grazin’, plenty of cover ’round here if they need it.”
Austin crawled out of the wagon, grabbing his carbine repeater. It was smart — even though they didn’t need it for killing today, it was better to be safe than get caught off-guard by any wild predators. He walked over to Arthur, and Arthur began walking slowly across the grass, looking down to examine the dirt. “Now whatchu wanna do is look for any signs, footprints, fur, dung, broken branches and whatnot.” He took several steps forward, crouching low so he could see better.
Austin did the same, crouching to help look around for anything they could pick up. “So look for those things, got it.” He said, crawling low to the ground.
“You also wanna be quiet as possible, don’t wanna draw any attention towards yourself or you’ll scare off anythin’ nearby. Same thing can be said about your gun.” Arthur looked over his shoulder at him, “You ever use a bow before, boah?”
Austin shook his head, “Only a couple times when I was young. We got one up by the cabin stored in the shed. Another thing that belonged to our grandfather, but I never touched the damned thing.”
Arthur huffed, amused at the other man’s stubborn nature. “It’s a useful weapon, kid, it can be used to make quiet kills so you don’t frighten off any wildlife in the near vicinity.”
The young man just let out a grunt, “I ain’t touchin’ that thing.”
Arthur just shrugged at the boy’s pride, “Up to you, but I highly suggest you start learnin’ how to use it.”
Over the next several minutes, they examined the grounds, both of them crawling quietly through the tall grass.
“Arthur?”
Austin’s whispered voice reached Arthur’s ear, and he turned to see him waving his arm, gesturing for him to come over. He made his way over, and once he was beside Austin the kid pointed at a few small hoof prints in the soil. He smiled, “Good job there, feller, now see if you can follow them.”
The boy nodded and did just that. Over the next half hour, Arthur continued to help him by pointing out other signs, such as crushed grass, a couple broken branches, and bits of fur here and there. The last sign was several strange marks on one of the trees twenty yards away. ‘Tree rubs,’ of course.
“This way,” Arthur whispered, leading them quietly through a few tall bushes.
Finally they reached a new wide-open clearing. This one had a small pond directly in the center, and in the distance, Arthur spotted the white-tailed buck grazing on some of the lush green grass at its feet.
For a moment, Arthur froze, recalling all the dreams he’d been having. The buck looked so similar to the one in his dreams; the size, the coat, the large antlers it displayed. Every single detail was precise.
Austin sat beside him, and Arthur felt rather than heard the boy lifting his gun.
At that moment, a doe and two young fawns appeared from behind one of the large boulders, the three of them approaching the large buck.
Arthur grabbed the barrel of the gun before Austin could aim the thing.
He watched as the doe came over to the buck with the two young close behind her, and the creatures nuzzled each other lovingly.
It was a sight that Arthur found himself lost in, and he couldn’t help but think of his own family, what was, what could have been, what might have been … If he’d only chosen a different life for himself …
What the hell was wrong with him?
“What the hell are you doin’, Arthur?”
Austin’s voice echoed his thoughts, snapping him back out from his mind. Arthur cleared his throat, “Let’s leave ’em be, kid.” He was going to leave it at that, but then he added “We promised Y/N, remember? Just trackin’.”
Austin gave him a strange look, but after a couple of moments he seemed to decide not to argue with him. “So what now?”
Arthur gazed at the family of deer a few seconds longer, then he flicked his gaze over to Austin, “I don’t know. I reckon we should head on back,” he turned to face the younger man, “You suppose your ready to travel back?”
Again with that strange look, what the hell was Austin seeing? Had Arthur suddenly grown his own pair of antlers? What was running through that boy’s mind?
Finally, he answered, “I guess so, I think I learned plenty today.” They both stood quietly and started heading back towards the wagon. Austin tucked the gun strap over his shoulder, reaching up to scratch at his cheek again. “I’ll admit that was actually quite fun. Thanks, Arthur. You’re a pretty great tracker, in all honesty.”
The compliment felt strange, Arthur thought, especially coming from Austin of all people, but he supposed he would take it. The boy was grateful, having learned something that would be incredibly useful for him and his sister when it came to their survival. “It ain’t no cake walk after this, boah. We still got a long way to go, trackin’ requires a lot of patience — an eagle’s eye.”
Austin nodded, giving him a small smile, “I suppose that makes sense. A lot of patience — kinda like fishin’?”
Arthur let out a genuine laugh at that, “I guess you’re right.”
2 Weeks Later …
Birds tittered high up in the trees, singing there own unique songs as the sun’s rays bore down on your back. The weather was absolutely gorgeous today, you thought to yourself as you knelt in your garden. You were in a cheery mood, humming softly as you pruned several of the herbs and flowers. You looked over your shoulder to see that Arthur was still relaxing on the porch swing, working on something in his journal. Writing or drawing? You had no clue, but you were going to leave him to his privacy.
The last two weeks had been quite the ride.
Arthur’s body was improving, his skin and muscles filling back out with each passing week. Even though his blood still showed signs of leftover Tuberculosis bacteria, it was clear his body was slowly but successfully fighting it off. You continued to give him treatments every other day, and he still took daily doses of honey per your instructions.
But despite the fact his body was getting better physically, you knew the herbs and medication still had a large impact on both his physical and mental state, so you still urged him to be cautious with his actions so that he didn’t overwork himself too much. It was crucial for him to stay in a calm state so his mind and body wouldn’t somehow become unstable.
He’d been sleeping a lot better. Every night you woke up to check on him, and Arthur was sleeping peacefully every time. Truly, it made you happy to see him so relaxed now. Ever since you’d sung that lullaby for him so many nights ago, that nightmare of his hadn’t seemed to come back. Though you still wondered who this John was, no matter how much it bothered you, you didn’t want to risk bringing anymore pain to Arthur.
For the past several days Arthur had been on his feet helping out around the cabin, whether it was doing chores or hunting with Austin, he managed to keep himself busy throughout the day. He was regaining the muscle and healthy tone he’d no doubt once had before, his face, eyes, and cheeks becoming full once more, and he was beginning to gain a tan from being out in the sun so much now.
Ever since you had given it to him, not once had Arthur ever taken off his new hat. Unless he was asleep or bathing, the thing rarely ever left his head.
It really did look good on him.
You had to admit, the man was absolutely stunning. Whenever he worked or did any kind of physical labor, you couldn’t help but watch those muscles in his body sometimes, how they moved and flexed beneath his skin, noting the healthy shine of sweat on his face, his neck, his forearms, and God help you, but sometimes he went shirtless when he worked, and it was all you could do not to throw yourself at the man. Push him to the ground and take him there and then —
What on earth was wrong with you? You shook your head hard, trying to perish those dirty thoughts from your mind. You weren’t exactly a plucked flower, but you’d read enough romance novels to give yourself plenty of naughty imagination.
Letting out a sigh, you plucked another dead leaf. There were so many scars across his body, old and new, but one stuck out to you the most. You recalled the scar you’d seen on Arthur’s chest, just above his left pectoral. There was no doubt it was a gunshot wound, the scar tissue around it having sunken down into the ruined flesh. It had long since healed, but the skin there was still pink, still soft, so it hadn’t been too long since it was inflicted on him. Again you wondered, what had happened to him? Who’d shot him? Why? The thoughts of possibility raced through your head, but going off his nature and what you’d seen of him thus far, you couldn’t come to a conclusion or even imagine why anyone would want to hurt that man.
Reaching out to crush another dead leaf, you smiled to yourself.
Arthur was strong … indeed he was a fighter.
You’d slowly been getting more and more comfortable with the thought of Arthur going out with Austin on his hunting trips, allowing them to start traveling out as far as they needed to go. Food was getting low, and finally you’d told the two boys that they could start hunting for game if they wished. You were proud of them both, for keeping to their word and staying safe.
You could tell your brother was improving with his skills thanks to Arthur, just last week they had managed to bring back a boar, and Arthur had told you that your brother had managed to track it down on his own, but Austin had admitted that he’d missed the first few shots, and Arthur had to kill the boar himself. The two had slowly been getting along, you’d noticed. It was more than refreshing to see.
Arthur had been helping Austin out with his aim several times over the last two weeks, the two of them practicing down by the stream in the late evenings.
You would stay back and watch to observe every chance you got. Honestly, you secretly wished it was you Arthur was teaching. To show you how to handle a gun, how to aim it, how to shoot. You had no idea how to use a weapon, so you picked up whatever you could from the two of them.
Your brother had recently started working with your grandfather’s bow, which confused you at first, since he’d always insisted on using his own carbine repeater. But then he’d explained to you that Arthur had told him it was a stealthy hunting tactic in order to capture more game.
Finally, you’d understood. Winter was slowly approaching, and it was more than important to learn how to use a much quieter weapon, especially when wildlife was so much more scarce during the cold parts of the year.
But — despite countless hours of practice — Austin hadn’t managed to get the hang of it, which worried you somewhat. Poor man, each time he tried aiming an arrow, the thing would wobble in his grip and the shot itself ended up with the arrow landing on the ground only a few feet away. No matter how Arthur instructed him, it seemed hopeless. At one point Austin had nearly thrown the thing into the stream, shouting something about how the bow wasn’t working properly. But Arthur had tested the thing for himself, and of course it worked flawlessly when he’d used it, the arrow finding its mark perfectly on one of the trees he’d been aiming for..
You’d found yourself strangely drawn to the weapon, you had to admit, though you weren’t quite sure why.
The bow itself was very beautiful. The long round limbs were made of dark maple wood, painted with some kind of glossy coating to protect the wood from wear and tear. The handle was wrapped in finely engraved black leather strips. There were several more curly engravings that ran along the weapon itself, and two small metal owl heads were placed at each end, the beaks holding the tight silver bowstring.
A part of you really wanted to try it out for yourself at some point.
The two men were planning on going on another hunting trip today, so it was going to be another quiet evening alone at the cabin for you. Strangely enough, even though you finally felt comfortable with them both being gone, you still weren’t quite used to it.
“How you doin’ there, Y/N?”
Arthur’s deep voice nearly had you jumping out of your skin. You leapt to your feet and turned around to face him. “Arthur!” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat, “I didn’t hear you comin’ over.”
Grinning, he let out a soft chuckle, “Sorry bout that, honey, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You’re fine,” you said, waving off his apology.
He looked over your shoulder at the plants behind you, “So what’re you doin’?”
You turned to look down at the herbs you’d been working on, “Oh, well I was just pruning some of the plants.” At his questioning look you added, “Sometimes some of the leaves or stems die and I need to take them off, otherwise it could cause disease and the nutrients inside the plants are wasted trying to feed what’s no longer alive. When I get rid of the dead pieces it allows them to focus on keeping the rest of the plant strong and healthy.”
Arthur nodded, though you had the feeling he was only pretending to understand what you were talking about in order to make you feel better, going by the confused look and his face; his eyes narrowed, his mouth her in a small grimace. “So these herbs,” he cleared his throat, “them what you used to treat my TB with?”
His curiosity nearly had you taken aback. Honestly, you hadn’t really expected him to care enough to ask such a question. “Yes,” you said, your voice soft as you looked up at him, “I — I gather pieces from them from time to time and make several elixirs and medications from their properties.” You pointed to one of the plants, “That right there is Ginger, it’s used as an antioxidant, which can help take care of some of the negative effects caused by most bacterias.” You pointed to several others, giving the names and explaining what each of them did.
By the time you’d named a few more, you looked back at Arthur, and his brows were drawn down tight, his hand rubbing at the side of his temple as if he’d gotten a headache. You nearly laughed, “I’m sorry, Arthur, I tend to get carried away sometimes.”
Arthur lifted a brow as if he were actually amused, “I can tell you really enjoy your work,” he said, a wide grin stretching those lips of his, “It’s really amazin’. You should be proud, honey.”
You lowered your eyes, feeling a blush creep into your cheeks, “Thank you, Arthur. I honestly wouldn’t know as much as I did without my mother’s journal. She taught me so much.” You voice nearly hitched, and you blinked several times in order to keep any tears from welling.
Arthur reached out and laid a warm hand on your shoulder in an effort to comfort you, “I’m sure she’d be real proud of you, Y/N.”
You couldn’t speak, so you just nodded in answer.
Several moments passed, and Arthur spoke again, “Austin mentioned to me that you ran into a man named William?”
Your head jerked up that that, surprised. “He told you about that?”
Arthur nodded, “The night you saved me from that mountain, told me you met an herbalist the same day. Quite a character.”
Your brows lifted, “You know him?”
“Yeah. Met him a few times, a long while ago, before — Well, before all that shit went down.”
“Language, Arthur!”
You both laughed, and he tipped his hat to you.
He was truly adorable, you thought as you smiled at him. You lifted your gaze to look at the hat. “So, how you liking your new hat, Arthur?”
Your question had him letting out a laugh as he ran his fingers across the leather brim. “Keep’s the sun outta my eyes, like you said,” he teased. His eyes softened then, those beautiful sapphire-emeralds seeming to stare directly into your soul. “Thank you, Y/N.”
His grateful smile alone nearly overwhelmed you, and you quickly spoke your next words before you found your idiot-self getting lost in his gaze. “I’m glad you like it. My grandmother made that hat for our grandfather when they were both young. It was … meant to stand for something … but he didn’t do it justice with the life he led. It needs to be worn by a good man. Someone like you.”
Arthur’s expression seemed to change at that moment, and you couldn’t help but notice the softness in his eyes suddenly grow hard.
•••••
A good man.
It was all Arthur could do not to lose himself then and there. To take the hat off and give it back to her immediately, to leave and never turn back even once. Dammit, he didn’t deserve to be here. He didn’t deserve the treatments he’d been given, all the hospitality, the food and shelter that Y/N and Austin had so generously given.
He wasn’t a good man, and he damn well knew it.
It was the second time she’d called him that, and he nearly had to bite his tongue. But what could he possibly say to her at that moment? That he wasn’t the man she truly thought he was? That he’d been a liar? A thief? A ruthless killer?
An outlaw …
Arthur did his best not to squeeze his eyes shut from the sudden pain that welled in his chest. What the hell was wrong with him? There was nothing he could say or do to get past the ache in his heart from those words.
For once, he was extremely grateful to hear that sill boy’s scratchy voice calling out to both of them.
Y/N smiled, looking over Arthur’s shoulder, “Austin, how are ya?”
Austin came jogging over, his face and clothes covered in dust and dirt from whatever work he’d been doing earlier. He stopped a few feet in front of them, “I’m doin’ just fine, sis,” he panted, nodding at Y/N and meeting Arthur’s gaze. “Hey, Arthur, so you ready for our next huntin’ trip?” The young man asked him, a naive yet excited smile spread across his face. Over the past two weeks he’d learned to enjoy the trips, getting to learn something new from them each and every time.
Arthur shrugged with a small chuckle, “That depends, are you?” He nodded at the dirt covering the boy.
Austin scratched his cheek, “Yeah, sorry about that, sir.” He brushed off the dirt from his clothes, “It ain’t nothin’, Just noticed the two of you over here and I wanted to see if you were prepared to head out.”
Over the last several days, Austin had grown the strange and somewhat annoying habit of calling him sir, and Arthur didn’t really know why. Was he trying to show some sort of respect toward him? Maybe after acting like such a dumbass over the past month, he might’ve thought addressing Arthur in that way would gain him redemption? It felt odd, and Arthur really wished he wouldn’t call him that, but he’d go along with it if it made the younger man feel better.
“Well, Austin,” Arthur said, clearing his throat, “Ready when you are, then.”
“Dandy! I found an interestin’ new spot I think we should go check out a ways up north, the wagon’s already loaded up and ready to go.” Austin stated, pointing over toward the stables where the coach stood, with Lily already attached to it. The boy was quick, Arthur thought. He must’ve been busy getting everything prepared while he and Y/N had been working on their own tasks.
Arthur lowered his eyes. On one hand he didn’t want to leave Y/N so abruptly, but on the other he needed to escape the tension that had suddenly risen in his gut from her words. A good man … how could he follow up that line with any further conversation? It hadn’t angered him, but he was tired of hearing it — from anyone. He gave a single nod, “Let’s head out, then.”
As Austin nodded and headed off toward the wagon, Arthur looked back over his shoulder to meet Y/N’s gaze, “We’ll be back soon, honey.” He said softly, winking and giving her a small grin. He hoped she wasn’t disappointed, but he needed to get out of there. Clear his head.
But she didn’t look upset. No, instead her eyes absolutely glowed as she gave him another one of her beautiful smiles. “Y’all stay safe, Arthur.” After a slight moment of hesitation, she returned his wink, “You keep Austin safe now.”
Her teasing helped the tension ease away somewhat, and he let out a chuckle, “Don’t you worry, I’ll keep him in line.”
With that, he headed over to join Austin on the wagon.
•••••
“So where we headed?” Arthur asked as Austin steered Lily up the narrow trail through the tall sequoia trees. He and the younger man waved farewell to Y/N with her returning the gesture as they disappeared around a large rock.
Austin lowered his hand, pulling out a piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and handed it to Arthur, “There’s this new place I wanna check out, passed by it a few days ago while ridin’ Butch. Seemed interestin’.”
Arthur took the map and held it up, looking over a simple drawing of directions. They appeared to lead up north towards the larger mountains, further into the forest.
The kid pointed at a thick scribble he’d made on the paper, “That area right there, it’s right at the foot of the mountains between the trees. A small area of tall grass. I saw a family of elk there a couple times. If we can spot them again, I’m sure we can bring back enough food to last us for a month.”
What he said was true, one elk could last them quite a while. If they managed to kill one, they’d be set for weeks. Arthur folded the map back up and handed it back, “You seem to know what you’re doin’,” He said with a light laugh.
Austin shook his head, “Only a little, sir, it’s why I thought it best for you to come along on this one.”
Arthur shrugged, “You’ll get the hang of it soon enough, kid,” He reached out and patted the man’s shoulder. “I’ll look after ya.”
The younger man narrowed his eyes, “I don’t need no hand-holdin’, Arthur.”
Arthur’s heart suddenly skipped at those words, his smile dropping from his face as his eyes grew flat.
Those words … when had he last heard those exact words —
A memory flashed through his mind … Lenny …
He flinched, lowering his head as he reached up to tug down the brim of his hat, hiding his expression from the brother. The pain was almost unbearable … coming back to bit him in the ass once more.
The loss of his friends, of his family — it had only been a couple months, and the agony still felt just as sharp, as though it had only been yesterday when his life had completely fallen apart.
… What life, though?
Arthur nearly wanted to laugh at himself from the thought.
His family had meant everything to him, the bond they’d shared more real than anything else in the world.
But Arthur would be lying to himself if he’d thought what they had was any kind of real life. He’d spent the majority of his chasing a dream for a life he weren’t even sure about, along with the rest of the gang who’d followed over the years. He’d failed all of them. Hosea, Lenny, Kieran, Sean, Grimshaw, Mac, Davey, Jenny … they’d all had their own lives snatched away from them so abruptly.
They’d never had the chance for the life they’d so desperately fought for.
And the others … Charles, Sadie, Tilly, Mary-Beth, Uncle … Karen, Swanson, Trelawny … Where were they now?
The wonder of their whereabouts prodded his mind like a hot poker every single day. Even though he tried so hard to move on in hopes that they would do the same and lead normal lives, it was extremely difficult to do so. He only hoped they were all safe. They all deserved so much more after all the shit they went through in the gang.
And Jack, Abigail, John …
Arthur lifted his eyes to stare up at the sky, the sun’s bright rays peeking through the small clouds.
‘You’re my brother.’
Those words echoed through his mind, and he allowed himself a sad smile. He thought back to Sister Calderon, the words she’d spoken echoing in his head. ‘Take a gamble that love exists.’
Arthur wasn’t the religious type, but deep inside his heart he prayed for the sake of John and his family, for their safety, so that they may go on to live the lives they’d damn well earned.
John Marston. The man was a goddamn fool, but he loved Abigail and Jack, and Arthur knew he’d do anything to protect them.
They were safe.
He knew, deep down in his heart something told him. They were out there.
Time passed by quickly, and finally the wagon stopped. Arthur felt the seat lift as Austin hopped out, and he shook himself out of his thoughts, realizing that they’d arrived at the foot of the mountains. Arthur looked around, taking in the small grassy clearing. He raised a hand to lift the brim of his hat, looking up at the base of the mountain, a tall cliff that encircled half of the area. The other half was enclosed by the thick forest of trees that towered over them, their green and multi-colored coming-autumn leaves providing cool shade to the tiny meadow.
“We’re finally here,” Austin said cheerfully as he rolled his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness in his limbs. He walked behind the wagon to grab his carbine repeater.
Arthur examined the area closely. Indeed, it was a great area for wildlife of all kinds. Plenty of grass, soft ground, perfect temperature, and shelter. He narrowed his eyes, noting a small cave opening at the base of the cliff. It was too small for a bear or cougar, so it was probably just a family of deer, he thought. Still, they had to be cautious. It was an unexplored area. He looked over his shoulder as Austin approached him from behind and stared at the gun he held, “You need to get a handle on that bow soon, kid.” He said teasingly.
“I know, I know, and I ain’t a kid!” Austin snapped, “I’ve been tryin’ but I’m just hopeless with the damn thing!”
Arthur nearly laughed at the blush that crept into Austin’s cheeks as he looked away, unable to meet Arthur’s gaze.
He really had been trying his best, Arthur did notice, but the bow was turning out to be the boy’s natural enemy. Either he weren’t a good teacher, or the bow was truly hopeless for him. Where was Charles when he needed him, Arthur thought almost sadly.
Arthur shook his head at the thought, then threw his hand up in the general direction. “Lead the way.”
Austin gave a small but nervous nod, stepping forward and leading them both across the grass towards the cliff. They crept slowly and quietly, staying low to the tall grass to avoid being spotted by any of the nearby wildlife. There were small sounds here and there as Austin examined the grounds, but they were mostly from squirrels or small rabbits. Since Austin only had the gun with him, they weren’t going to risk scaring off any larger game by shooting and possibly missing smaller targets. Arthur had taught him to be careful with such things.
Gradually they got further and further away from the wagon, and Austin led Arthur towards the foot of the cliff. “There,” the younger man whispered, pointing toward some hoof-prints that had been left behind in the ground. They created a trail, and the two men followed it, making their way around the cliff. Finally, the tracks stopped at the base of some large rocks that formed a small ramp towards the top of the cliff. Austin began to climb, and Arthur followed behind him, as quiet as they could possibly be.
Suddenly a small rock bounced down from atop the cliff, landing in the small meadow below, and Arthur looked up, spotting a small glimpse of large antlers just over the peak. “There’s one,” Austin whispered next to him, having seen them as well.
“Alright, get your gun ready,” Arthur whispered back as they approached the top. His heart was racing, but he forced himself to calm down as they reached the top of the plateau. The elevated area was covered in thick foliage, and the two men hid behind the thick shrubbery as they made their way over to a large rock that provided solid cover.
Austin slowly and quietly cocked the gun, peering over at the large creature nibbling on some of the grass by the cliff-edge. It was a huge bull elk, appearing to weigh at least seven hundred and twenty-five pounds. The creature was definitely large, larger than any Arthur had seen in a long while. The creature was magnificent, he thought. The meat on its bones could definitely keep them fed for weeks.
He looked over at Austin, noticing that the boy was breathing hard, creating too much noise. “Calm yourself,” Arthur muttered, “Elk can hear very well, take a deep breath and let it out slow.”
Austin did as he was told, closing his eyes as he did so. “Alright,” he whispered, then he slowly began scooting forward. He crouched carefully, propping the barrel of the gun on the tip of the boulder.
A small loose rock was knocked off as the weapon was adjusted, landing with a small crack on the hard ground. The elk snatched its head up, its ears perked in their direction. It looked over toward their spot, and before Arthur could stop what happened next, Austin quickly stood from behind cover and fired the repeater.
It was so quick, the kid having not given himself the proper aiming stance, and the recoil shot him backwards, the bullet missing the elk as it pinged off the one of the rocks several feet away. The creature jumped, bounding off quickly in the opposite direction. Austin lifted his gun and fired a few more rounds as it fled down the cliff.
“What the hell are you doin’?!” Arthur grabbed the man’s firing arm as the elk disappeared into the forest below, Lily whinnying and rearing in the wagon as the creature sped by her.
The boy grunted from the small pain of his fall, “I’m sorry, sir,” he grimaced as he stood slowly, “I thought — I thought it heard us, I wanted to try and get it before it ran away —”
“Of course it heard us, you goddamn fool!” Arthur snapped, anger boiling in his blood. “But it didn’t see us! Now the whole damn forest knows we’re here.”
Austin lowered his head, no doubt feeling ashamed from his actions.
“All you had to do was stay still,” Arthur growled, snatching the firearm from Austin’s grip. “Start headin’ down to the wagon. Ain’t no hope of gettin’ anything out here now.”
The boy didn’t say anything, only giving a small nod as he turned away and headed towards the rocks. It was more than clear the man knew he’d made a mistake, and Arthur was more than upset with him. The next few moments were quiet as they started making their way down the way they’d came.
As soon as they reached the meadow, Arthur halted in his tracks, placing a hand to Austin’s chest to stop him, “Hold on.”
Austin looked at him questioningly, “What is it, sir?”
Arthur didn’t answer as he skimmed his gaze over the tall grass. Something wasn’t right. It was way too damn quiet …
Just then, a massive wolf lunged out of the shrubs from behind, jumping up and catching Arthur on his left shoulder, its sharp teeth sinking deep as its claws caught his flesh.
“Arthur!” Austin yelled.
Arthur shouted in pain as the force knocked him forward, his hat falling away as the heavy weight of the wolf bore down on his body. The gun was knocked out of his hands, and he hit the ground hard. His heart began to beat fast as sharp snarling noises pierced his ears, sharp claws digging deep into his shoulders, Arthur cried out as his flesh was torn open, and he began to struggle, trying his best to flip onto his back. He wasn’t going out without a fight.
The massive gray wolf was unbelievably strong, but Arthur managed to grip the wolf’s head, crushing its skull between his hands as hard as he could until the wolf let go, jumping off his body momentarily. He looked over to see the gun lying on the ground just a couple feet away.
Arthur flipped himself over just before the beast made another attempt and leapt back onto him, its teeth bared for another bite as it aimed for his throat. But Arthur barely managed to block its target by taking hold of the wolf’s neck with a single hand, using the other to try and reach for the gun. Blood was seeping from his neck and shoulders, and his heartbeat began rushing throughout his entire body as the sharp teeth gnashed and snapped just inches away from his face, getting closer as his strength grew weaker.
He let out a loud guttural sound and gathered all the strength he had left, finally managing to grip the gun and swing it through the air, using the butt of the handle to knock the large beast off of him. He staggered to his feet, aiming quickly as he fired the weapon, hitting the wolf square in the chest just as it rushed towards him again. With a loud whine the thing fell to the ground dead, and Arthur’s head whipped around as he heard more growling.
Two more wolves had crept out of the bushes and had cornered Austin near the cliff. The kid looked absolutely terrified as the beasts stalked toward him, his body having frozen entirely.
“Austin!” Damn him if he was going to let another person die on his watch.
Arthur’s gaze began to spin as he aimed at the wolves. He cocked the weapon, but he was seeing damn near triple of everything around him. He was losing blood fast, and he nearly collapsed as he began to feel light-headed. With no other choice, he let out a hard huff, and with everything he had left he lurched across the grass and lunged forward, pushing Austin aside just in time right before one of the the wolves ran towards them.
The heavy creature tackled Arthur’s body hard, causing him to collapse again as the weapon was knocked out of his hands once more. The butt of the cocked gun hit the ground and went off, a sharp whine echoing through the trees as the stray bullet miraculously hit the other wolf. It ran off, leaving a heavy trail of blood in its wake.
As the last wolf held Arthur to the ground, he thought this was going to be it. He had nothing left, he felt absolutely nothing, his mind having completely turned off as his own blood seeped out onto the ground beneath him, his weak limbs refusing to move as his vision began to dim.
Suddenly, another gunshot went off, and he felt a heavy weight fall onto his body. It was soon pushed off, but he found himself unable to care as his heartbeat started drumming between his ears.
Arthur looked up at the sky, his breathing barely audible as he struggled to take in any air. Everything had happened so damn fast … He could hear someone calling out his name. A man’s voice, but who? A blurry figure appeared over him as a dark red haze began to creep in around his vision, or was that just his imagination? Something hard pressed into his shoulder, and the pain shot through him like a lightning bolt.
Flashes began going through his mind, each one followed by his slowing heartbeats.
Two crosses, placed side by side …
… A large buck, lifting its head as it gazed off into the distance …
… The sun, setting just over the horizon.
Arthur thought of watching the sunrise … the last time he’d had this ethereal feeling … back wherever he’d been. A sunrise, now a sunset …
He felt his body getting lifted … was he finally leaving?
Just before he closed his eyes, a long howl echoed through his head.
•••••
— To Be Continued
#unshaken#chapter 10#part 10#arthur morgan x reader#arthur morgan x female reader#slow burn#romance#arthur morgan#fanfic#red dead fanfic#rdr2 fanfic#red dead#rdr2#red dead redemption#red dead redemption 2#red dead redemption imagine
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“Unshaken” Chapter 10
This one took a lot out of me, but here it is finally! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed, they really fuel this story, they put a smile on my face every single day! Thank you so much for your love and support for Unshaken. I love you all, partners! 🐺❤️🦌 Thank you for 2,000+ followers!
“Unshaken” Masterlist, “Unshaken” AO3
Summary: You save a mysterious man who is dying on a mountain. Finding out he has Tuberculosis, you use your knowledge and skills with herbs and natural remedies to save him from death and help nurse him back to health. As he slowly starts to recover, you can’t help but wonder: Who is this man? Why had you found him the way that you did, beaten and ill? Only time, patience … and perhaps love … will tell.
The first mile was peaceful, and Arthur looked around as the wagon strolled down a narrow dirt path through the thick forest. The trees were tall, the hilly landscape like the huge waves of the ocean. His heart almost skipped a beat when he recalled those monstrous walls of water when he was on board that ship. Never again was he ever going on another damn boat as long as he lived.
He took in a deep breath, the smell and feel of the fresh forest air overcoming and relaxing his senses. It felt so good to be out in the wild again, he had to admit. He’d actually found himself missing the familiar scent of wilderness, reminding him of all those nights when he’d been out on his own, hunting, camping, whatever the hell he felt like doing.
Arthur almost laughed to himself then.
He was still here … still alive … still breathing … And the rest of the world believed he was dead, including his old friends — or what was left of them. Anger began to simmer deep within his gut at the thought of Dutch, Micah’s betrayal, what they’d done to him and John, the rest of the gang. He squeezed his eyes shut, lifting his hand to tug at the brim of his new hat, trying to find comfort in the new gift. All he could tell himself was that Marston was safe. The boy was an idiot, sure, but when it came to his family and their safety, Arthur knew nothing would stand in John’s way.
A gentle gust of wind hit him, blowing back his hair and cooling what little heat had begun to grow in his cheeks from the anger he felt. Arthur let out a sigh, allowing the cool feeling to seep into his skin. Looking around, he took in the surrounding views. He knew he was somewhere far north of Roanoke Ridge, but he’d never been up this far before Y/N and Austin had taken him in.
The place was beautiful, he thought, taking in the towering trees around them. He’d learned a few interesting terms from Y/N’s herbalist books. He’d been drawn to those bookshelves of hers many times while he’d been cooped up in that cabin, if only to avoid dying from boredom rather than Tuberculosis. Turned out he’d ended up drawn to the knowledge.
There were so many kinds of trees he could now identify— Spruce, Cedars, Pines, Oaks, and very many Sequoia trees. These trees were extremely tall, forming a thick canopy of leaves far overhead, the sunshine piercing through them in rays, hitting the ground with glowing warm light.
The air smelled so fresh as well, and Arthur took in another deep breath, relishing the real cool feeling in his lungs and the fresh and unique smells around him. There was so much plant life growing up here, all kinds of colorful flowers and foliage dotting the thick green grass everywhere. Damn, this area was gorgeous.
Arthur reached up again and stroked the feather on his hat gently, the bristles soft as, well, a feather. He gripped the crown and took the hat off, lowering it to his lap so he could examine it further. The black leather was worn, but genuine, and he could tell it was made from real cowhide, examining the hundreds of skin pores scattered all over. He ran a finger over the brown braided leather tied around the crown of the hat, similar to how his father’s hat had the looped rope. The texture was rough, but also soft, little furs sticking up here and there from years of use.
Then Arthur looked at the feather, and he squinted, his brows drawing down tight as he stroked the thing with the tip of his finger. It was that of a great-horned owl, a primary feather from the wing, the black and gold colored stripes giving away its identity. He wondered, then … why an owl feather? Maybe it was just something her grandfather hadn’t thought much about, but sometimes a certain kind of bird feather in a cowboy’s hat had a meaning behind it.
Thinking back, he recalled Y/N telling him that her grandfather hadn’t lived ‘the best life.’ That he’d been some kind of wanderer. Arthur found himself being curious as to what exactly she had meant. A wanderer?
What kind of life had the old man lived that had her hesitating to tell him the whole story? And what of the feather?
A cough escaped him, and he lifted a had to cover his mouth, clearing his throat then.
Austin looked over at him with curious eyes, “You alright, cowpoke?”
Arthur couldn’t help but give a small smile as he turned his head to face the young man, narrowing his eyes at him, “I’m just fine, little feller, how ’bout yourself?”
The brother narrowed his eyes in return, showing that he was clearly offended by the term Arthur had used on him, “I ain’t ‘little.’”
Arthur laughed, “Why, sure you is, little feller. As long as you call me a cowpoke, I’ll keep callin’ you little. Sound fair?”
Austin grunted, “Not really.” He reached up to scratch at his cheek, then added, “But you kinda do strike me as a cowpoke.”
“Well, you strike me as little, boah,” Arthur said with a grin, his voice a low rough tone as he patted his chest with an open palm, “And it’ll be much worse if you ain’t careful, son.”
Austin grunted, letting out a huff as if he wasn’t amused with Arthur’s teasing in the least.
Several more moments of silence passed, and Arthur gently placed the hat back on his head.
“So she decided to give you our grandfather’s hat, huh?” Austin asked, his voice sounding a bit sour as he cracked the reins again.
Arthur looked over at him, noting the expression the boy had on his face. He didn’t look angry, exactly, but from his eyes Arthur could tell there was some kind of story. “What do you mean?” He asked.
Austin let out a long sigh, “Well, I know she told you it belonged to our grandfather, and he weren’t the best man when he was alive. I never wanted to touch the damn thing after he died.” He lifted his eyes to meet Arthur’s, “Kinda feels weird that you’re wearin’ it, s’all.”
Arthur took that moment as a chance to find out what he could, maybe the brother could give him some of the information he’d been wondering about. “Who was he?”
Austin let out a sarcastic laugh, “I don’t think that’s for me to say. If she didn’t tell you, I don’t think I should be the one to do so.”
Arthur’s natural instinct would’ve been to reach out and choke the bastard to get the information he wanted. It was a feeling he was used to whenever assholes gave him a hard time, but he could respect the brother for looking after his sister.
Another curious thought occurred to him then, and he couldn’t help but ask, “What were y’all doin’ before you found me up on that mountain?”
He could see Austin freeze up at the question, and the young man turned his gaze over to look at him, “You mean that night? We were travelin’ back from Emerald Ranch. Y/N needed to do a trade for some of the supplies we needed for the horses. We have a few contacts scattered here and there for supplies we need that we can’t get up here, and sometimes we need to travel a ways to get them.
“We were supposed to arrive home sometime in the late evening, but we ran into this strange man on the road. He looked odd, short gray dreads, green bandana around his head, weird old clothing. Said his name was William.”
Arthur stilled at that.
“But anyhow,” Austin continued, not noticing that Arthur had suddenly froze, “he was camping out on the side of the road near Moonstone Pond, and he had all these strange plants he seemed to be workin’ with. Of course, it grabbed Y/N’s attention and he invited us over, so she and I stopped to chat with him for a while.” Austin chuckled as he recalled the memory, “What was supposed to be a small chat ended up bein’ a two-hour conversation. I didn’t really listen to what they were sayin’ since I was wrapped up in a book I’ve been readin’. Eventually I had to pull her away since it was gettin’ late.
“When we were just about to leave, she mentioned a special plant that grew over by O’Creagh’s Run, must’ve been somethin’ they were talkin’ about earlier. I was about to say no, but she gave me this look. She has this thing that she does with her eyes, drives me crazy ’cuz I can’t turn her down when she does it.
"So we headed over there, and I stopped the wagon by the small lake so she could explore the area. I just hung out under a tree with my book to pass the time … That’s when we heard the sounds.”
Arthur lifted his head and narrowed his eyes, “Sounds?”
“Gunshots, shoutin’ — We was goin’ to leave the area as quickly as possible, but — well, Y/N could hear the struggles, fighting, a man in pain, and she couldn’t stop herself.” Austin paused, as if he were deep in thought, “We saw someone runnin’ away from the mountain before they disappeared into the trees. I didn’t really get a good look at the man, but it looked like he had dirty, long blonde hair … someone you knew?”
The fury that suddenly welled in Arthur’s chest didn’t surprise him in the least damn bit.
Micah.
That damned rat.
The rat that weaseled his way in and ultimately destroyed the Van Der Linde gang in such a short amount of time.
Twenty goddamned years of loyalty and service to Dutch, and the old fool had decided to listen and believe someone who’d just joined the gang not half a year ago, a man who’d only been out for himself in the end … Just like Dutch …
“Arthur?”
Austin’s voice interrupted Arthur’s thoughts and snapped him back to reality. “Yeah, sorry ’bout that, kid. Just thinkin’.”
Austin seemed to have picked up on Arthur’s mood, no doubt from the gravel Arthur felt in his throat from the emotion that had just been about to take him over. He couldn’t dwell on such things, not right now. What good did it do?
At that moment another thought occurred to him, “You didn’t want Y/N takin’ me in, did you?” He stated it as fact since he knew the answer, but he found himself wanting to hear what Austin’s response would be.
The boy chuckled darkly, looking straight ahead at the narrow dirt trail. “Honestly, when we heard the gunshots, I thought it was going to be a trap, an ambush of some kind. But Y/N … When we reached that mountain and found you laying on that rock, it was like she didn’t care about anythin’ else in the world but you.” He cleared his throat, “The whole time I was worried that she was going to get herself killed, being so close to a stranger. I feared that something terrible would happen, like you would have a knife hidden on you, or a friend of yours would come leaping out of a hiding spot and shoot her dead.” Austin lowered his head, looking down at his lap as if lost in thought, “To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I would’ve done had that been the case. Y/N is my whole world right now, and she matters to me more than anythin’ else in my pathetic life.”
Arthur’s eyes softened, almost finding himself sympathizing with the poor boy, but he continued to listen.
“When she insisted on taking you to our cabin, I nearly lost it. Watching her take you in and nurse you back to health every day, I couldn’t help but fear for the worst. I still thought you had something evil planned. Some monsters would go to any length to take advantage and trick people like us to get what they want, even if it’s hurtin’ one of their own.”
The boy was smart, Arthur admitted to himself. There were definitely men like that out there, and he should damn well know.
“But when she mentioned you had Tuberculosis, and I began seeing the signs from you, how truly sick you were — I guess … Well, I guess I noticed how stupid I was bein’ at that point — but I was too proud to admit it.
“After you showed your skills with the gun, I realized you could've killed us both whenever you wanted long before that point. The thought was scary, of course, but finally seeing that all you needed was a gun or your bare hands to take us both out and you never did? Well, I guess you can say my stupidity wore off a lil’ bit at that point.”
Arthur grinned, amused with Austin’s confession at how much of an idiot he had been for all the trouble he’d given him.
But could he fully blame Austin? The boy was just looking after his sister, and Arthur couldn’t do nothing but respect him for it. “Don’t hurt yourself too much over it, boah. You’re just lookin’ after her, I understand. In fact,” he leaned back and rolled his shoulders, stretching out the tension in his back, “I kinda like that.”
Austin acknowledged his statement with a small nod and a smile. “I love her, I really do. She’s family, and the most wonderful person I know.” He narrowed his eyes at Arthur and teased, “If you ever hurt her, though, I’ll make sure to shoot you square in the chest, got it?”
Arthur threw back his head and laughed at the threat, “If you say so. But don’t you worry — I ain’t got plans for that.” The fact that the young man had the courage to actually threaten him was truly entertaining, and Arthur couldn’t help but note how much smaller the man actually was compared to him. Arthur had a good six inches on him in height, and a whole lot more muscle, despite the fact that he was still sick. The boy worked hard, but they clearly didn’t eat enough for him to gain a whole lot of meat on his bones. He was about as contrasted as he could be compared to Arthur.
He was grateful Austin had finally swallowed his pride down enough in order to ask him how to hunt. They truly did need it, and he would do his best to teach them. It was the least he could do for him and his sister after everything they’d done for him.
The next several moments were quiet, minus the sound of Lily’s hooves hitting the ground and the tittering of birds high up in the trees.
“So what’s it like livin’ up here?” Arthur asked. “It don’t seem too bad.”
“It ain’t,” Austin replied with a shrug, “It was tough for the first few months, but we managed. Built ourselves a camp, then eventually built ourselves a cabin — then the stables for the horses and other animals.” He cleared his throat, “Of course it’s been hard, what with my lack of huntin’ skills, but Y/N absolutely loves it. She enjoys bein’ surrounded by all the wildlife and plants.”
Arthur found himself suddenly more invested, wanting to know more about Y/N and her passions. “And her garden?”
“She’s been in love with flowers since she was a tiny thing. When we came up here, she brought a few supplies that belonged to our mother, and she got to work on that garden right away.” He let out a small laugh, “What started as a small batch of flowers and herbs turned into a small estate of all kinds of plants. She’s been finding different herbs all over the place and replanting them here for the past three years. Every month it gets larger and larger. I’ll admit, it looks pretty damn beautiful.”
Arthur grinned. “That is does,” he agreed with a nod. It did indeed, Y/N’s garden was a pretty good size, and the colorful shrubbery was a marvel to look at, truthfully. He’d been able to see it out through one of the windows as he’d been recovering on that couch all that time ...
“So how are you feeling, Arthur?” Austin asked, breaking the silence.
Arthur turned his head to look at him, “What?”
Austin lifted a hand to point at his chest, “Your TB, you were coughing a bit earlier, just checking to see how you’re feelin’ now?”
Arthur rubbed his own palm over his chest, “I’m just fine, you’re sister’s got some healin’ magic goin’ on with those herbs of hers.”
The boy’s laugh was loud and sharp, “Y/N has a talent with nature, that’s for damn sure. I swear she may be Mother Nature herself.”
The two men’s laughter echoed through the trees as they travelled further down the trail. A squirrel skittered across the ground, and Arthur watched it disappear into the thick foliage on the other side.
More time passed, until finally they reached a small clearing. Arthur lifted his finger to point over to a small grassy area. “That’s a good spot to start.”
Austin pulled back the reins until Lily stopped, bringing the wagon to a halt. He looked over to where he was pointing and lifted a brow, “Really? Doesn’t seem like the kind of spot wildlife would be, it’s too open.”
Arthur gave him a bewildered look. “Wildlife don’t always need to be in a particular spot in order for you to track ’em, Austin.” He said, his drawl annoyed, letting the young man know through his tone that what Austin had stated was completely idiotic. He got up and climbed down out of the wagon, walking towards the small patch, “This area's got plenty of plant-life, tellin’ you it’s a good spot to start pickin’ up trails.” He narrowed his eyes as he placed his hands on his belt, turning his head as he took in the surrounding forest. “It’s perfect for grazin’, plenty of cover ’round here if they need it."
Austin crawled out of the wagon, grabbing his carbine repeater. It was smart — even though they didn’t need it for killing today, it was better to be safe than get caught off-guard by any wild predators. He walked over to Arthur, and Arthur began walking slowly across the grass, looking down to examine the dirt. “Now whatchu wanna do is look for any signs, footprints, fur, dung, broken branches and whatnot.” He took several steps forward, crouching low so he could see better.
Austin did the same, crouching to help look around for anything they could pick up. “So look for those things, got it.” He said, crawling low to the ground.
“You also wanna be quiet as possible, don’t wanna draw any attention towards yourself or you’ll scare off anythin’ nearby. Same thing can be said about your gun.” Arthur looked over his shoulder at him, “You ever use a bow before, boah?”
Austin shook his head, “Only a couple times when I was young. We got one up by the cabin stored in the shed. Another thing that belonged to our grandfather, but I never touched the damned thing.”
Arthur huffed, amused at the other man’s stubborn nature. “It’s a useful weapon, kid, it can be used to make quiet kills so you don’t frighten off any wildlife in the near vicinity.”
The young man just let out a grunt, “I ain’t touchin’ that thing.”
Arthur just shrugged at the boy’s pride, “Up to you, but I highly suggest you start learnin’ how to use it.”
Over the next several minutes, they examined the grounds, both of them crawling quietly through the tall grass.
“Arthur?”
Austin’s whispered voice reached Arthur’s ear, and he turned to see him waving his arm, gesturing for him to come over. He made his way over, and once he was beside Austin the kid pointed at a few small hoof prints in the soil. He smiled, “Good job there, feller, now see if you can follow them.”
The boy nodded and did just that. Over the next half hour, Arthur continued to help him by pointing out other signs, such as crushed grass, a couple broken branches, and bits of fur here and there. The last sign was several strange marks on one of the trees twenty yards away. ‘Tree rubs,’ of course.
“This way,” Arthur whispered, leading them quietly through a few tall bushes.
Finally they reached a new wide-open clearing. This one had a small pond directly in the center, and in the distance, Arthur spotted the white-tailed buck grazing on some of the lush green grass at its feet.
For a moment, Arthur froze, recalling all the dreams he’d been having. The buck looked so similar to the one in his dreams; the size, the coat, the large antlers it displayed. Every single detail was precise.
Austin sat beside him, and Arthur felt rather than heard the boy lifting his gun.
At that moment, a doe and two young fawns appeared from behind one of the large boulders, the three of them approaching the large buck.
Arthur grabbed the barrel of the gun before Austin could aim the thing.
He watched as the doe came over to the buck with the two young close behind her, and the creatures nuzzled each other lovingly.
It was a sight that Arthur found himself lost in, and he couldn’t help but think of his own family, what was, what could have been, what might have been … If he’d only chosen a different life for himself …
What the hell was wrong with him?
“What the hell are you doin’, Arthur?”
Austin’s voice echoed his thoughts, snapping him back out from his mind. Arthur cleared his throat, “Let’s leave ’em be, kid.” He was going to leave it at that, but then he added “We promised Y/N, remember? Just trackin’.”
Austin gave him a strange look, but after a couple of moments he seemed to decide not to argue with him. “So what now?”
Arthur gazed at the family of deer a few seconds longer, then he flicked his gaze over to Austin, “I don’t know. I reckon we should head on back,” he turned to face the younger man, “You suppose your ready to travel back?”
Again with that strange look, what the hell was Austin seeing? Had Arthur suddenly grown his own pair of antlers? What was running through that boy’s mind?
Finally, he answered, “I guess so, I think I learned plenty today.” They both stood quietly and started heading back towards the wagon. Austin tucked the gun strap over his shoulder, reaching up to scratch at his cheek again. “I’ll admit that was actually quite fun. Thanks, Arthur. You’re a pretty great tracker, in all honesty.”
The compliment felt strange, Arthur thought, especially coming from Austin of all people, but he supposed he would take it. The boy was grateful, having learned something that would be incredibly useful for him and his sister when it came to their survival. “It ain’t no cake walk after this, boah. We still got a long way to go, trackin’ requires a lot of patience — an eagle's eye.”
Austin nodded, giving him a small smile, “I suppose that makes sense. A lot of patience — kinda like fishin’?”
Arthur let out a genuine laugh at that, “I guess you’re right.”
2 Weeks Later ...
Birds tittered high up in the trees, singing there own unique songs as the sun’s rays bore down on your back. The weather was absolutely gorgeous today, you thought to yourself as you knelt in your garden. You were in a cheery mood, humming softly as you pruned several of the herbs and flowers. You looked over your shoulder to see that Arthur was still relaxing on the porch swing, working on something in his journal. Writing or drawing? You had no clue, but you were going to leave him to his privacy.
The last two weeks had been quite the ride.
Arthur’s body was improving, his skin and muscles filling back out with each passing week. Even though his blood still showed signs of leftover Tuberculosis bacteria, it was clear his body was slowly but successfully fighting it off. You continued to give him treatments every other day, and he still took daily doses of honey per your instructions.
But despite the fact his body was getting better physically, you knew the herbs and medication still had a large impact on both his physical and mental state, so you still urged him to be cautious with his actions so that he didn’t overwork himself too much. It was crucial for him to stay in a calm state so his mind and body wouldn’t somehow become unstable.
He’d been sleeping a lot better. Every night you woke up to check on him, and Arthur was sleeping peacefully every time. Truly, it made you happy to see him so relaxed now. Ever since you’d sung that lullaby for him so many nights ago, that nightmare of his hadn’t seemed to come back. Though you still wondered who this John was, no matter how much it bothered you, you didn’t want to risk bringing anymore pain to Arthur.
For the past several days Arthur had been on his feet helping out around the cabin, whether it was doing chores or hunting with Austin, he managed to keep himself busy throughout the day. He was regaining the muscle and healthy tone he’d no doubt once had before, his face, eyes, and cheeks becoming full once more, and he was beginning to gain a tan from being out in the sun so much now.
Ever since you had given it to him, not once had Arthur ever taken off his new hat. Unless he was asleep or bathing, the thing rarely ever left his head.
It really did look good on him.
You had to admit, the man was absolutely stunning. Whenever he worked or did any kind of physical labor, you couldn’t help but watch those muscles in his body sometimes, how they moved and flexed beneath his skin, noting the healthy shine of sweat on his face, his neck, his forearms, and God help you, but sometimes he went shirtless when he worked, and it was all you could do not to throw yourself at the man. Push him to the ground and take him there and then —
What on earth was wrong with you? You shook your head hard, trying to perish those dirty thoughts from your mind. You weren’t exactly a plucked flower, but you’d read enough romance novels to give yourself plenty of naughty imagination.
Letting out a sigh, you plucked another dead leaf. There were so many scars across his body, old and new, but one stuck out to you the most. You recalled the scar you’d seen on Arthur’s chest, just above his left pectoral. There was no doubt it was a gunshot wound, the scar tissue around it having sunken down into the ruined flesh. It had long since healed, but the skin there was still pink, still soft, so it hadn’t been too long since it was inflicted on him. Again you wondered, what had happened to him? Who’d shot him? Why? The thoughts of possibility raced through your head, but going off his nature and what you’d seen of him thus far, you couldn’t come to a conclusion or even imagine why anyone would want to hurt that man.
Reaching out to crush another dead leaf, you smiled to yourself.
Arthur was strong ... indeed he was a fighter.
You’d slowly been getting more and more comfortable with the thought of Arthur going out with Austin on his hunting trips, allowing them to start traveling out as far as they needed to go. Food was getting low, and finally you’d told the two boys that they could start hunting for game if they wished. You were proud of them both, for keeping to their word and staying safe.
You could tell your brother was improving with his skills thanks to Arthur, just last week they had managed to bring back a boar, and Arthur had told you that your brother had managed to track it down on his own, but Austin had admitted that he’d missed the first few shots, and Arthur had to kill the boar himself. The two had slowly been getting along, you’d noticed. It was more than refreshing to see.
Arthur had been helping Austin out with his aim several times over the last two weeks, the two of them practicing down by the stream in the late evenings.
You would stay back and watch to observe every chance you got. Honestly, you secretly wished it was you Arthur was teaching. To show you how to handle a gun, how to aim it, how to shoot. You had no idea how to use a weapon, so you picked up whatever you could from the two of them.
Your brother had recently started working with your grandfather’s bow, which confused you at first, since he’d always insisted on using his own carbine repeater. But then he’d explained to you that Arthur had told him it was a stealthy hunting tactic in order to capture more game.
Finally, you’d understood. Winter was slowly approaching, and it was more than important to learn how to use a much quieter weapon, especially when wildlife was so much more scarce during the cold parts of the year.
But — despite countless hours of practice — Austin hadn’t managed to get the hang of it, which worried you somewhat. Poor man, each time he tried aiming an arrow, the thing would wobble in his grip and the shot itself ended up with the arrow landing on the ground only a few feet away. No matter how Arthur instructed him, it seemed hopeless. At one point Austin had nearly thrown the thing into the stream, shouting something about how the bow wasn’t working properly. But Arthur had tested the thing for himself, and of course it worked flawlessly when he’d used it, the arrow finding its mark perfectly on one of the trees he’d been aiming for..
You’d found yourself strangely drawn to the weapon, you had to admit, though you weren’t quite sure why.
The bow itself was very beautiful. The long round limbs were made of dark maple wood, painted with some kind of glossy coating to protect the wood from wear and tear. The handle was wrapped in finely engraved black leather strips. There were several more curly engravings that ran along the weapon itself, and two small metal owl heads were placed at each end, the beaks holding the tight silver bowstring.
A part of you really wanted to try it out for yourself at some point.
The two men were planning on going on another hunting trip today, so it was going to be another quiet evening alone at the cabin for you. Strangely enough, even though you finally felt comfortable with them both being gone, you still weren’t quite used to it.
“How you doin’ there, Y/N?”
Arthur’s deep voice nearly had you jumping out of your skin. You leapt to your feet and turned around to face him. “Arthur!” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat, “I didn’t hear you comin’ over.”
Grinning, he let out a soft chuckle, “Sorry bout that, honey, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You’re fine,” you said, waving off his apology.
He looked over your shoulder at the plants behind you, “So what’re you doin’?”
You turned to look down at the herbs you’d been working on, “Oh, well I was just pruning some of the plants.” At his questioning look you added, “Sometimes some of the leaves or stems die and I need to take them off, otherwise it could cause disease and the nutrients inside the plants are wasted trying to feed what’s no longer alive. When I get rid of the dead pieces it allows them to focus on keeping the rest of the plant strong and healthy.”
Arthur nodded, though you had the feeling he was only pretending to understand what you were talking about in order to make you feel better, going by the confused look and his face; his eyes narrowed, his mouth her in a small grimace. “So these herbs,” he cleared his throat, “them what you used to treat my TB with?”
His curiosity nearly had you taken aback. Honestly, you hadn’t really expected him to care enough to ask such a question. “Yes,” you said, your voice soft as you looked up at him, “I — I gather pieces from them from time to time and make several elixirs and medications from their properties.” You pointed to one of the plants, “That right there is Ginger, it’s used as an antioxidant, which can help take care of some of the negative effects caused by most bacterias.” You pointed to several others, giving the names and explaining what each of them did.
By the time you’d named a few more, you looked back at Arthur, and his brows were drawn down tight, his hand rubbing at the side of his temple as if he’d gotten a headache. You nearly laughed, “I’m sorry, Arthur, I tend to get carried away sometimes.”
Arthur lifted a brow as if he were actually amused, “I can tell you really enjoy your work,” he said, a wide grin stretching those lips of his, “It’s really amazin’. You should be proud, honey.”
You lowered your eyes, feeling a blush creep into your cheeks, “Thank you, Arthur. I honestly wouldn’t know as much as I did without my mother’s journal. She taught me so much.” You voice nearly hitched, and you blinked several times in order to keep any tears from welling.
Arthur reached out and laid a warm hand on your shoulder in an effort to comfort you, “I’m sure she’d be real proud of you, Y/N.”
You couldn’t speak, so you just nodded in answer.
Several moments passed, and Arthur spoke again, “Austin mentioned to me that you ran into a man named William?”
Your head jerked up that that, surprised. “He told you about that?”
Arthur nodded, “The night you saved me from that mountain, told me you met an herbalist the same day. Quite a character.”
Your brows lifted, “You know him?”
“Yeah. Met him a few times, a long while ago, before — Well, before all that shit went down.”
“Language, Arthur!”
You both laughed, and he tipped his hat to you.
He was truly adorable, you thought as you smiled at him. You lifted your gaze to look at the hat. “So, how you liking your new hat, Arthur?”
Your question had him letting out a laugh as he ran his fingers across the leather brim. “Keep’s the sun outta my eyes, like you said,” he teased. His eyes softened then, those beautiful sapphire-emeralds seeming to stare directly into your soul. “Thank you, Y/N.”
His grateful smile alone nearly overwhelmed you, and you quickly spoke your next words before you found your idiot-self getting lost in his gaze. “I’m glad you like it. My grandmother made that hat for our grandfather when they were both young. It was … meant to stand for something … but he didn’t do it justice with the life he led. It needs to be worn by a good man. Someone like you.”
Arthur’s expression seemed to change at that moment, and you couldn’t help but notice the softness in his eyes suddenly grow hard.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
A good man.
It was all Arthur could do not to lose himself then and there. To take the hat off and give it back to her immediately, to leave and never turn back even once. Dammit, he didn’t deserve to be here. He didn’t deserve the treatments he’d been given, all the hospitality, the food and shelter that Y/N and Austin had so generously given.
He wasn’t a good man, and he damn well knew it.
It was the second time she’d called him that, and he nearly had to bite his tongue. But what could he possibly say to her at that moment? That he wasn’t the man she truly thought he was? That he’d been a liar? A thief? A ruthless killer?
An outlaw …
Arthur did his best not to squeeze his eyes shut from the sudden pain that welled in his chest. What the hell was wrong with him? There was nothing he could say or do to get past the ache in his heart from those words.
For once, he was extremely grateful to hear that sill boy’s scratchy voice calling out to both of them.
Y/N smiled, looking over Arthur’s shoulder, “Austin, how are ya?”
Austin came jogging over, his face and clothes covered in dust and dirt from whatever work he’d been doing earlier. He stopped a few feet in front of them, “I’m doin’ just fine, sis,” he panted, nodding at Y/N and meeting Arthur’s gaze. “Hey, Arthur, so you ready for our next huntin’ trip?” The young man asked him, a naive yet excited smile spread across his face. Over the past two weeks he’d learned to enjoy the trips, getting to learn something new from them each and every time.
Arthur shrugged with a small chuckle, “That depends, are you?” He nodded at the dirt covering the boy.
Austin scratched his cheek, “Yeah, sorry about that, sir.” He brushed off the dirt from his clothes, “It ain’t nothin’, Just noticed the two of you over here and I wanted to see if you were prepared to head out.”
Over the last several days, Austin had grown the strange and somewhat annoying habit of calling him sir, and Arthur didn’t really know why. Was he trying to show some sort of respect toward him? Maybe after acting like such a dumbass over the past month, he might’ve thought addressing Arthur in that way would gain him redemption? It felt odd, and Arthur really wished he wouldn’t call him that, but he’d go along with it if it made the younger man feel better.
“Well, Austin,” Arthur said, clearing his throat, “Ready when you are, then.”
“Dandy! I found an interestin’ new spot I think we should go check out a ways up north, the wagon’s already loaded up and ready to go.” Austin stated, pointing over toward the stables where the coach stood, with Lily already attached to it. The boy was quick, Arthur thought. He must’ve been busy getting everything prepared while he and Y/N had been working on their own tasks.
Arthur lowered his eyes. On one hand he didn’t want to leave Y/N so abruptly, but on the other he needed to escape the tension that had suddenly risen in his gut from her words. A good man … how could he follow up that line with any further conversation? It hadn’t angered him, but he was tired of hearing it — from anyone. He gave a single nod, “Let’s head out, then.”
As Austin nodded and headed off toward the wagon, Arthur looked back over his shoulder to meet Y/N’s gaze, “We’ll be back soon, honey.” He said softly, winking and giving her a small grin. He hoped she wasn’t disappointed, but he needed to get out of there. Clear his head.
But she didn’t look upset. No, instead her eyes absolutely glowed as she gave him another one of her beautiful smiles. “Y’all stay safe, Arthur.” After a slight moment of hesitation, she returned his wink, “You keep Austin safe now.”
Her teasing helped the tension ease away somewhat, and he let out a chuckle, “Don’t you worry, I’ll keep him in line.”
With that, he headed over to join Austin on the wagon.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
“So where we headed?” Arthur asked as Austin steered Lily up the narrow trail through the tall sequoia trees. He and the younger man waved farewell to Y/N with her returning the gesture as they disappeared around a large rock.
Austin lowered his hand, pulling out a piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and handed it to Arthur, “There’s this new place I wanna check out, passed by it a few days ago while ridin’ Butch. Seemed interestin’.”
Arthur took the map and held it up, looking over a simple drawing of directions. They appeared to lead up north towards the larger mountains, further into the forest.
The kid pointed at a thick scribble he’d made on the paper, “That area right there, it’s right at the foot of the mountains between the trees. A small area of tall grass. I saw a family of elk there a couple times. If we can spot them again, I’m sure we can bring back enough food to last us for a month.”
What he said was true, one elk could last them quite a while. If they managed to kill one, they’d be set for weeks. Arthur folded the map back up and handed it back, “You seem to know what you’re doin’,” He said with a light laugh.
Austin shook his head, “Only a little, sir, it’s why I thought it best for you to come along on this one.”
Arthur shrugged, “You’ll get the hang of it soon enough, kid,” He reached out and patted the man’s shoulder. “I’ll look after ya.”
The younger man narrowed his eyes, “I don’t need no hand-holdin’, Arthur.”
Arthur’s heart suddenly skipped at those words, his smile dropping from his face as his eyes grew flat.
Those words … when had he last heard those exact words —
A memory flashed through his mind … Lenny …
He flinched, lowering his head as he reached up to tug down the brim of his hat, hiding his expression from the brother. The pain was almost unbearable … coming back to bit him in the ass once more.
The loss of his friends, of his family — it had only been a couple months, and the agony still felt just as sharp, as though it had only been yesterday when his life had completely fallen apart.
… What life, though?
Arthur nearly wanted to laugh at himself from the thought.
His family had meant everything to him, the bond they’d shared more real than anything else in the world.
But Arthur would be lying to himself if he’d thought what they had was any kind of real life. He’d spent the majority of his chasing a dream for a life he weren’t even sure about, along with the rest of the gang who’d followed over the years. He’d failed all of them. Hosea, Lenny, Kieran, Sean, Grimshaw, Mac, Davey, Jenny … they’d all had their own lives snatched away from them so abruptly.
They’d never had the chance for the life they’d so desperately fought for.
And the others … Charles, Sadie, Tilly, Mary-Beth, Uncle … Karen, Swanson, Trelawny … Where were they now?
The wonder of their whereabouts prodded his mind like a hot poker every single day. Even though he tried so hard to move on in hopes that they would do the same and lead normal lives, it was extremely difficult to do so. He only hoped they were all safe. They all deserved so much more after all the shit they went through in the gang.
And Jack, Abigail, John …
Arthur lifted his eyes to stare up at the sky, the sun’s bright rays peeking through the small clouds.
‘You’re my brother.’
Those words echoed through his mind, and he allowed himself a sad smile. He thought back to Sister Calderon, the words she’d spoken echoing in his head. ‘Take a gamble that love exists.’
Arthur wasn’t the religious type, but deep inside his heart he prayed for the sake of John and his family, for their safety, so that they may go on to live the lives they’d damn well earned.
John Marston. The boy was a goddamn fool, but he loved Abigail and Jack, and Arthur knew he’d do anything to protect them.
They were safe.
He knew, deep down in his heart something told him. They were out there.
Time passed by quickly, and finally the wagon stopped. Arthur felt the seat lift as Austin hopped out, and he shook himself out of his thoughts, realizing that they’d arrived at the foot of the mountains. Arthur looked around, taking in the small grassy clearing. He raised a hand to lift the brim of his hat, looking up at the base of the mountain, a tall cliff that encircled half of the area. The other half was enclosed by the thick forest of trees that towered over them, their green and multi-colored coming-autumn leaves providing cool shade to the tiny meadow.
“We’re finally here,” Austin said cheerfully as he rolled his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness in his limbs. He walked behind the wagon to grab his carbine repeater.
Arthur examined the area closely. Indeed, it was a great area for wildlife of all kinds. Plenty of grass, soft ground, perfect temperature, and shelter. He narrowed his eyes, noting a small cave opening at the base of the cliff. It was too small for a bear or cougar, so it was probably just a family of deer, he thought. Still, they had to be cautious. It was an unexplored area. He looked over his shoulder as Austin approached him from behind and stared at the gun he held, “You need to get a handle on that bow soon, kid.” He said teasingly.
“I know, I know, and I ain’t a kid!” Austin snapped, “I’ve been tryin’ but I’m just hopeless with the damn thing!”
Arthur nearly laughed at the blush that crept into Austin’s cheeks as he looked away, unable to meet Arthur’s gaze.
He really had been trying his best, Arthur did notice, but the bow was turning out to be the boy’s natural enemy. Either he weren’t a good teacher, or the bow was truly hopeless for him. Where was Charles when he needed him, Arthur thought almost sadly.
Arthur shook his head at the thought, then threw his hand up in the general direction. “Lead the way.”
Austin gave a small but nervous nod, stepping forward and leading them both across the grass towards the cliff. They crept slowly and quietly, staying low to the tall grass to avoid being spotted by any of the nearby wildlife. There were small sounds here and there as Austin examined the grounds, but they were mostly from squirrels or small rabbits. Since Austin only had the gun with him, they weren’t going to risk scaring off any larger game by shooting and possibly missing smaller targets. Arthur had taught him to be careful with such things.
Gradually they got further and further away from the wagon, and Austin led Arthur towards the foot of the cliff. “There,” the younger man whispered, pointing toward some hoof-prints that had been left behind in the ground. They created a trail, and the two men followed it, making their way around the cliff. Finally, the tracks stopped at the base of some large rocks that formed a small ramp towards the top of the cliff. Austin began to climb, and Arthur followed behind him, as quiet as they could possibly be.
Suddenly a small rock bounced down from atop the cliff, landing in the small meadow below, and Arthur looked up, spotting a small glimpse of large antlers just over the peak. “There’s one,” Austin whispered next to him, having seen them as well.
“Alright, get your gun ready,” Arthur whispered back as they approached the top. His heart was racing, but he forced himself to calm down as they reached the top of the plateau. The elevated area was covered in thick foliage, and the two men hid behind the thick shrubbery as they made their way over to a large rock that provided solid cover.
Austin slowly and quietly cocked the gun, peering over at the large creature nibbling on some of the grass by the cliff-edge. It was a huge bull elk, appearing to weigh at least seven hundred and twenty-five pounds. The creature was definitely large, larger than any Arthur had seen in a long while. The creature was magnificent, he thought. The meat on its bones could definitely keep them fed for weeks.
He looked over at Austin, noticing that the boy was breathing hard, creating too much noise. “Calm yourself,” Arthur muttered, “Elk can hear very well, take a deep breath and let it out slow.”
Austin did as he was told, closing his eyes as he did so. “Alright,” he whispered, then he slowly began scooting forward. He crouched carefully, propping the barrel of the gun on the tip of the boulder.
A small loose rock was knocked off as the weapon was adjusted, landing with a small crack on the hard ground. The elk snatched its head up, its ears perked in their direction. It looked over toward their spot, and before Arthur could stop what happened next, Austin quickly stood from behind cover and fired the repeater.
It was so quick, the kid having not given himself the proper aiming stance, and the recoil shot him backwards, the bullet missing the elk as it pinged off the one of the rocks several feet away. The creature jumped, bounding off quickly in the opposite direction. Austin lifted his gun and fired a few more rounds as it fled down the cliff.
“What the hell are you doin’?!” Arthur grabbed the man’s firing arm as the elk disappeared into the forest below, Lily whinnying and rearing in the wagon as the creature sped by her.
The boy grunted from the small pain of his fall, “I’m sorry, sir,” he grimaced as he stood slowly, “I thought — I thought it heard us, I wanted to try and get it before it ran away —”
“Of course it heard us, you goddamn fool!” Arthur snapped, anger boiling in his blood. “But it didn’t see us! Now the whole damn forest knows we’re here.”
Austin lowered his head, no doubt feeling ashamed from his actions.
“All you had to do was stay still,” Arthur growled, snatching the firearm from Austin’s grip. “Start headin’ down to the wagon. Ain’t no hope of gettin’ anything out here now.”
The boy didn’t say anything, only giving a small nod as he turned away and headed towards the rocks. It was more than clear the man knew he’d made a mistake, and Arthur was more than upset with him. The next few moments were quiet as they started making their way down the way they’d came.
As soon as they reached the meadow, Arthur halted in his tracks, placing a hand to Austin’s chest to stop him, “Hold on.”
Austin looked at him questioningly, “What is it, sir?”
Arthur didn’t answer as he skimmed his gaze over the tall grass. Something wasn’t right. It was way too damn quiet ...
Just then, a massive wolf lunged out of the shrubs from behind, jumping up and catching Arthur on his left shoulder, its sharp teeth sinking deep as its claws caught his flesh.
“Arthur!” Austin yelled.
Arthur shouted in pain as the force knocked him forward, his hat falling away as the heavy weight of the wolf bore down on his body. The gun was knocked out of his hands, and he hit the ground hard. His heart began to beat fast as sharp snarling noises pierced his ears, sharp claws digging deep into his shoulders, Arthur cried out as his flesh was torn open, and he began to struggle, trying his best to flip onto his back. He wasn’t going out without a fight.
The massive gray wolf was unbelievably strong, but Arthur managed to grip the wolf’s head, crushing its skull between his hands as hard as he could until the wolf let go, jumping off his body momentarily. He looked over to see the gun lying on the ground just a couple feet away.
Arthur flipped himself over just before the beast made another attempt and leapt back onto him, its teeth bared for another bite as it aimed for his throat. But Arthur barely managed to block its target by taking hold of the wolf’s neck with a single hand, using the other to try and reach for the gun. Blood was seeping from his neck and shoulders, and his heartbeat began rushing throughout his entire body as the sharp teeth gnashed and snapped just inches away from his face, getting closer as his strength grew weaker.
He let out a loud guttural sound and gathered all the strength he had left, finally managing to grip the gun and swing it through the air, using the butt of the handle to knock the large beast off of him. He staggered to his feet, aiming quickly as he fired the weapon, hitting the wolf square in the chest just as it rushed towards him again. With a loud whine the thing fell to the ground dead, and Arthur’s head whipped around as he heard more growling.
Two more wolves had crept out of the bushes and had cornered Austin near the cliff. The kid looked absolutely terrified as the beasts stalked toward him, his body having frozen entirely.
“Austin!” Damn him if he was going to let another person die on his watch.
Arthur’s gaze began to spin as he aimed at the wolves. He cocked the weapon, but he was seeing damn near triple of everything around him. He was losing blood fast, and he nearly collapsed as he began to feel light-headed. With no other choice, he let out a hard huff, and with everything he had left he lurched across the grass and lunged forward, pushing Austin aside just in time right before one of the the wolves ran towards them.
The heavy creature tackled Arthur’s body hard, causing him to collapse again as the weapon was knocked out of his hands once more. The butt of the cocked gun hit the ground and went off, a sharp whine echoing through the trees as the stray bullet miraculously hit the other wolf. It ran off, leaving a heavy trail of blood in its wake.
As the last wolf held Arthur to the ground, he thought this was going to be it. He had nothing left, he felt absolutely nothing, his mind having completely turned off as his own blood seeped out onto the ground beneath him, his weak limbs refusing to move as his vision began to dim.
Suddenly, another gunshot went off, and he felt a heavy weight fall onto his body. It was soon pushed off, but he found himself unable to care as his heartbeat started drumming between his ears.
Arthur looked up at the sky, his breathing barely audible as he struggled to take in any air. Everything had happened so damn fast ... He could hear someone calling out his name. A man’s voice, but who? A blurry figure appeared over him as a dark red haze began to creep in around his vision, or was that just his imagination? Something hard pressed into his shoulder, and the pain shot through him like a lightning bolt.
Flashes began going through his mind, each one followed by his slowing heartbeats.
Two crosses, placed side by side …
… A large buck, lifting its head as it gazed off into the distance …
… The sun, setting just over the horizon.
Arthur thought of watching the sunrise … the last time he’d had this ethereal feeling … back wherever he’d been. A sunrise, now a sunset …
He felt his body getting lifted … was he finally leaving?
Just before he closed his eyes, a long howl echoed through his head.
— To Be Continued
#unshaken#unshaken chapter 10#arthur morgan x reader#romance#slow burn#drama#action#red dead redemption 2#rdr2 fanfic#red dead fanfic#red dead redemption fanfic#18+#arthur morgan x y/n#arthur morgan x female reader#arthur morgan#rdr2 arthur#rdr2
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As demonstrations against police brutality and abuse of Black Americans spread across Boston on the night of May 31 and early morning of June 1, the city’s police department was out in force.
Many officers wore body cameras. During the unrest, the cameras recorded hours of footage that the department subsequently stored.
That footage was given to attorney Carl Williams, who is representing some protesters arrested that night, as part of a discovery file encompassing 44 videos and over 66 hours of footage. Williams assembled a team of volunteer lawyers and law students to pore over the videos to find exculpatory evidence for his clients. What they found, however, was something more.
The hours of video, given exclusively to The Appeal by Williams, show police officers bragging about attacking protesters, targeting nonviolent demonstrators for violence and possible arrest, discussing arrest quotas and the use of cars as weapons, and multiple instances of excessive force and liberal use of pepper spray.
“It’s this mob mentality,” Williams said of the police behavior. “And I use ‘mob’ as a sort of a double entendre—mob like the mafia and mob like a group of a pack of wild people roaming the streets looking to attack people.”
The Appeal shared sections of the footage with Suffolk County District Attorney Rachael Rollins, who said that in her view, police behavior in the videos is indicative of the very issues that demonstrators were marching to bring attention to.
“I have not watched the entire video, but the snippets that I have seen are incredibly troubling,” said Rollins, adding that she has sent the clips to her special prosecution team.
The Boston Police Department has opened an investigation into the revelations in the videos, Sergeant Detective John Boyle told The Appeal. Citing the investigation, Boyle declined further comment.
The May 31 Boston demonstration, part of a nationwide movement that was sparked by the police killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis on May 25, officially wrapped up around 9 p.m., Black Boston co-founder Toiell Washington told The Appeal. Washington said that her group was one of the main organizers of the event and made a conscious choice not to work with police because of the nature of the protest.
“We didn’t work with any city officials and we definitely didn’t work with the police,” said Washington. “We didn’t have that conversation with them.”
To Black Boston, working with the department on a protest against police brutality would have been hypocritical and counterproductive. The group did not encounter any resistance from police during the march and demonstration, Washington said, but that changed as the night wore on.
“As soon as it got dark, they started things,” Washington said of the police. “I have many friends that were attacked, and they did nothing to provoke anyone.”
Washington said that police turned the city into a “war zone,” barricading protesters and passersby alike and causing destruction and terror.
Activist Yaritza Dudley and other people The Appeal spoke to backed up that version of events. Dudley, who is Black Boston’s director of events, was not officially involved with the group at the time. She told The Appeal that she and her friends endured a harrowing escape from downtown Boston as police attacked them and everyone around them with tear gas, pepper spray, and physical violence. That behavior wasn’t surprising to the young activist—but it was a major moment nonetheless.
“It just goes to show that Boston is no different, is no better than any other city that you see with open attacks and police brutality,” said Dudley.
Lauren Pespisa, a Boston activist, told The Appeal she remembered seeing “more cops that night than any other, except shortly after when the National Guard came out.”
“The daytime march was extremely peaceful and the cops held back, then once the sun went down there was a lot of tear gas and police cars driving haphazardly into crowded streets,” said Pespisa. “They shut down the MBTA and had battalions of riot cops around every corner gassing us.”
“Start spraying the fuckers,” says one officer, wearing camera X81416368, at 1:21 a.m. UTC on June 1. (Times are set for UTC on the cameras referred to in this story—five hours ahead of Eastern time.)
Over and over in the videos, police officers are seen deploying plumes of pepper spray at demonstrators, often without warning or provocation. Crowds of protesters with their hands raised are regularly attacked and sprayed by officers on bikes and on foot. At times, demonstrators are rushed by surprise by officers spraying at will.
In one clip, when a man with a gray beard approaches a crowd of officers with his hands raised, an officer to his right sprays him with pepper spray from close range directly in the eyes. In another, a woman with blue hair is surrounded by officers and sprayed in the face at close range by one officer.
Rollins called the liberal use of pepper spray on display in the videos “disturbing” and said her team was looking into it. She added that she hoped the woman with blue hair had filed a complaint.
The officers appear enthusiastic about using the chemical weapon and unconcerned with whether to arrest demonstrators. In one clip, timed at 1:52 a.m., officers advancing on a crowd are pushing one young man standing with his hands raised.
“We gotta start spraying more,” the officer wearing camera X81417350 says.
“You out?” he asks another police officer offscreen, holding up a can of pepper spray. “I got a little left.”
“I want to hit this asshole,” he says, gesturing toward the young man being pushed back. “I’ve used two of these already—I’ve got a little left, I want to hit this kid.”
Williams cited those comments in particular as indicative of the attitude police in Boston take toward demonstrators and the community.
“This is not law enforcement,” he said. “That’s not what they’re doing right there in the streets, ganging up on people using weaponry.”
“And they’re enjoying it,” he added.
Officers assaulted demonstrators in various ways throughout the evening, often without any clear sense of purpose or reason. Using batons to compel crowds back, officers with cameras are seen pushing down people trying to get out of the way and comply with commands.
One officer, wearing camera X81329588, rushes a person on a moped who is trying to comply and clear the area. The officer charges him, shoving him off of the vehicle, for no discernible reason and with no provocation. The attack came at 2:08 a.m.
In another clip, outside Boston Common at 2:44 a.m., the same officer charges a young Black woman holding her hands up and shoves her violently to the ground with a baton. The officer says nothing when he does this and does not arrest her.
In the aftermath of the attack, the officer and his cohort push back other demonstrators expressing concern for the victim, who they say is still lying on the ground. The officers do not respond, instead marching forward with batons pushing demonstrators out of the way.
Marchers were exercising their First Amendment rights, Rollins said, and for the police to attack them with such ferocity is disturbing. Police behavior should be held to a higher standard, she added, and protesters expressing anger at officers is no excuse for violence.
“These are people exercising a constitutional right to be out,” said Rollins. “And there is no requirement that they be pleasant or silent when they are out.”
Those not wearing cameras are also seen assaulting demonstrators. One police officer, wearing a fluorescent jacket, looks back at camera X81417350 and then hits a young man in the stomach. The victim of the attack had been complying, walking backward with his hands up in front of his attacker.
The officers also appear to target certain demonstrators for violence. In one clip from 1:26 a.m. near the Common, a group of officers on bikes react strongly when a demonstrator kicks a tear gas canister back at them.
“Let’s get this fucker,” says the officer behind camera X8141668. “Let’s get him, lock him up.”
Although most of the abuse on camera happens without arrests, there are some instances of demonstrators being taken into custody. One video suggests that the reason for this was to meet arrest quotas.
At 4:52 a.m., the officer behind camera X8142975 gathers with other police officers, including a sergeant, at a rendezvous point. The conversation between the officer and the sergeant is revealing for what it implies about arrest quotas—a policy that has caused controversy in Massachusetts in the past, particularly around State Police ticket quotas.
“How many ya got?” asks the officer as the cameraman exits his vehicle.
“Just one, female,” he replies, lifting his hand.
The sergeant, after an unintelligible exchange, declares, “then we’re done” as he walks over to the vehicle. “That’s 10.”
The officers then realize the number is only nine, but the superior officer appears to think that number is satisfactory.
“I mean, theoretically, we could take one more,” he says, appearing to dismiss the idea.
Officers repeatedly appear to not realize they are being recorded.
In one instance, a commanding officer approaches the man behind camera X81413955 and hands him a necktie with a price tag still on it, presumably from a store looted during the unrest.
“It’s pretty nice,” replies the cameraman, adding that it’s a “$50 tie.”
The commanding officer quickly leaves the area, turning his back on the camera. Meanwhile, the officer with the camera appears to pocket the item. The Boston Police Department did not provide a case number, evidence log, or any information about the tie.
In another clip, a sergeant approaches the officer behind camera X81331058 and begins telling him about using a police vehicle to attack demonstrators.
“Dude, dude, dude, I fuckin’ drove down Tremont—there was an unmarked state police cruiser they were all gathered around,” says the sergeant, laughing.
“So then I had a fucker keep coming, fucking running,” he continues. “I’m fucking hitting people with the car, did you hear me, I was like, ‘get the fuck—'”
At this point the officer behind the camera pushes the sergeant’s head away and walks off in the other direction. He comes back a few seconds later, saying, “it’s on,” about the camera.
The sergeant quickly changes his story.
“Oh, no no no no no, what I’m saying is, though, that they were in front, like, I didn’t hit anybody, like, just driving, that’s all,” he says. “My windows were closed, the shit was coming in.”
The officer then apologizes.
“This thing just fucking went on automatically,” he says.
The comments about the car indicate a callousness on the part of the officer—regardless of whether he actually did it—considering the use of cars as weapons in recent years, Rollins said. She singled out a car attack at the Charlottesville, Virginia, counterprotests to the white supremacist Unite the Right rally in 2017 that killed left-wing activist Heather Heyer as an example of what vehicles can do when used in that way. Hearing a police officer laugh about it, she said, was not a good feeling.
“This individual appears to be taking pleasure in the fact that this happened or is gloating,” said Rollins. “I’m a member of law enforcement now as an elected district attorney, and I’m not proud of that when I see that. And I want to be proud of the behavior that we see with law enforcement moving forward.”
Not all officers are comfortable with the department’s approach to dealing with demonstrators. Criticism pops up at 3:38 a.m. from the officer wearing camera X81329486 as he and other officers take stock of the night.
“You know what was fucked up?” he says. “We’re pushing the one way, someone’s pushing them the other way.”
“There was no plan,” he says.
Another officer, wearing camera X8145069, says at 2:21 a.m. that the city is in an “absolute war.”
“This is insane,” he says, adding, “I didn’t think Boston would be that bad.”
To Washington of Black Boston, the police behavior shows the ineffectiveness of armchair commentary on how people of color “should” or “shouldn’t” protest police violence. Civil disobedience doesn’t come with an instruction manual—people can protest how they want—and to suggest that the reaction is inappropriate without applying empathy to the plight of the victims of the situation is the opposite of solidarity.
“They cannot tell us how to channel our emotions during situations like this,” said Washington.
Today, Washington and Black Boston are concentrating on continuing their efforts to ensure that the way things are done in Boston and around the country with respect to Black and brown people are changed for the better. The old way isn’t working, Washington said, and solidarity depends on unlearning the paradigms of the past.
A similar conversation is taking place nationally. Leaders in Washington and around the country are debating the ramifications of the acts of police violence that led to the new civil rights movement that erupted over the summer.
A number of local, state, and federal leaders in Massachusetts have been outspoken in their support for the movement. On Wednesday, the Boston City Council voted 8-5 to restrict the use of tear gas, pepper spray, and rubber bullets against demonstrators—a measure with roots in the protests in late May and early June.
Representative Ayanna Pressley, whose district encompasses three-quarters of the city of Boston, has been an indefatigable voice in Congress favor of police reforms. The Appeal showed her office portions of the above videos, particularly the ones focused on use of pepper spray and physical violence.
“The inexcusable actions of officers in these disturbing videos make painfully clear why our communities are standing up, speaking out and demanding decisive action to combat the public health crisis that is police brutality in our nation,” Pressley said in a statement. “We can and must advance bold and systemic policy change at all levels of government to bring an end to the toxic culture of police impunity that has fueled these abuses and begin to legislate true justice and healing for our communities.”
The ACLU of Massachusetts has been trying to obtain the videos from that night and other nights of protest since June. The Appeal shared a compilation of clips from the file with the organization before the publication of this article.
“We have seen a compilation of BPD body cam footage dated from June 1; if accurate, the footage raises concerns about excessive force,” Ruth Bourquin, ACLU of Massachusetts’s senior and managing attorney, said in a statement. “We are grateful that the body camera footage brought these incidents to light. We note that BPD has failed to produce these body cam recordings to the ACLU, in spite of a request from the summer that is the subject of pending public records litigation.”
Bourquin added that the behavior of the officers in the videos is antithetical to the principle of free assembly and the right of people to go out in the streets to demand justice. That right should not be infringed, she said.
For her part, Rollins promised change is coming. She issued an appeal to Bostonians that they trust her with information about the police.
“I want people to feel comfortable sending that information to me,” Rollins said. “I want people to feel comfortable enough filing a complaint with the Boston Police Department if that is the entity that engaged in, you know, problematic at best, criminal at worst behavior,. And if they don’t feel comfortable, I want them to file it with me or one of their Boston city councilors to get it to my attention. And we will review everything.”
#ACAB#kill all cops#blue lives matter#blue lives murder#blue lives don't matter#boston police department#repression#police state#polizei
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Children (4 of 4) | Michael Gray
[Photo by Pixabay from Pexels]
✏️ Pairing: Michael Gray x wife!reader
✏️ Summary: Michael is back from the war, but is he really? Life is still difficult and the Gray family is falling apart under Y/N’s helpless gaze. (Requested by @duckydae)
✏️ A/N: wow, I reached a new level of angst. @kind-wolf will not be happy haha
✏️ A/N 2: also, another note, just as a sort of background info. The whole America thing (and obviously Gina) didn’t happen, everything’s peachy between Michael and Tommy (and the rest of the squad fam). :)
✏️ Warnings: angst and a slight hint of smut and ‘mature’ themes (sort of PTSD talking, drugs use, depressive moments ?), so for safety measures, 18+ only! I hate it when you guys are minors and cheat me, don’t think I’m stupid.
✏️ Word-count: 5,613
<< part one: children << | << part two: anna and john << | << part three: a bigger table << | PART FOUR: WARHORSE
There has never been this much silence in the Grays’ house―six years have done plenty to change the precious status quo of things. Even the children are afraid to step on those floorboards that creak a little louder than the rest.
“The children”―they have stopped being children a long time ago, when their Daddy had to leave for the continent, Y/N reasons. They’ve grown up quicker than she did when her time had come, when the war had come crashing against the shores like a tide and had brought her father away in its muddy waves.
John and Anna are now adults―probably too young to be such―definitely too young―but it doesn’t matter, not in 1946. John is eighteen, Anna just two years younger, and while Y/N always sees them as her babies, she knows that what she’s looking at is the result of something she never thought would come again.
Even the twins don’t feel like the fourteen-year-olds they’re supposed to be. Rebellious, headstrong, Henry and Paul get in more trouble than she can count and there’s nothing she can do to help. Nothing she can do to stop that barbaric destruction her children are going through.
Michael doesn’t help. Michael can’t help―he can’t even help himself. He sits in their bedroom with the curtains drawn and the lights switched on―he’s afraid of the outer world, but he is even more of the darkness. And of what the darkness carries in its hands when it clouds his vision and the ratatat of the artillery fills not only his ears, but his veins as well.
Bill can’t help his Daddy. Bill, with his angelic face and curly hair, with that omnipresent smile on his face and that silence that always accompanies him around. Bill, from the hill of his ten years of age, can’t help his Daddy, can’t bring him back to the Brummie countryside where everything is as quiet as he is.
He’s hated―Y/N knows it and refuses to acknowledge it at the same time. His father can’t bear his company, can’t bear his presence. And it’s not because he’s mute, but because his silence fills his father’s void with screaming creatures and living horrors he just wants to forget, to delete from his memory, a burning rod scraping and digging into the grey matter of his brain.
He’s mute, too, Michael, but for a completely different reason. His lips are sealed during the day and while he’s started to finally eat again, his tongue doesn’t move, his lips don’t give shape to any kind of words.
There are screams during the night, though―blood-curdling screams that give her nightmares in the waking hours of her days―that make her skin crawl as she turns on her left side to face her husband. The screams are worse than the bombings, worse than the shrilling yells of the air-raid sirens that sometimes still thrum in her lungs and in her stomach.
But tonight is different. Tonight Michael doesn’t scream―and that’s because he doesn’t sleep. He can’t sleep, can’t bring himself to close his eyes, to see the walking skeletons that still plague his every breath with the same violence of the silence in this house. He lies there, on top of crumpled sheets, butt-naked, staring at a ceiling that’s giving him visions. He sees waves in the stucco decorations watching his every move from above, and he hears voices, whispered voices that ring like a mixture between Russian and German to his frustrated ear.
The need to scream is there, tickling the base of his throat with those chilling cold fingers that scrape at the sides of his brain every day. But there’s no sound leaving his lips.
He thinks of snow. It’s the first time in forever and the need is so strong that it’s making his mind spin, his vision blur, the muscles in his thighs cramp. He thinks that if only he manages to find some―he’s sure John uses some every once in a while―then everything will be alright. For a few hours, that is. His wife doesn’t need to know, doesn’t need to hear a thing. All he has to do is get up from that bed of thorns, walk down the corridor and into his first son’s room, and look for that God-damned magic white powder that will make him leave his body for a few, precious hours.
But when he sits up, a man possessed by his need for cocaine, the bedsheets whisper under his ass, the mattress moans and holding his breath is of no use because his wife is already turning in his direction. She didn’t fall asleep in the first place―she just can’t if he doesn’t fall asleep first, these days.
Hate bubbles up in his mouth like vomit―and it’s so sudden and unexpected that it would make him shiver if only war didn’t skin him alive. And it’s hate that makes him seethe that Go back to sleep through gritted teeth.
“Where are you going?” Her voice scrapes his eardrums, removes layer after layer of membrane from his brain. Even the faint sound of her breathing makes the nerves under his skin come to life, tense and creak like a branch ready to break and fall to the ground.
“Go back to sleep, Y/N.” It’s the most he’s said in the five months he’s been back home and he all but hates the sound of his voice. It’s foreign to his own ears, and it’s strained, paper-thin, dry like fallen leaves on a winter day.
He wants to tear his throat out with his own bare hands.
She doesn’t answer and he feels the mortal combat going on in her soul, feels it in the air like the static electricity before the storm comes. But the storm never comes. And despite his raging need for some drug-induced happiness, he sits and waits like a man staring out at the never-ending expanse of the sea.
His mouth is dry, his tongue a dead weight pressing against the back of his teeth. It weighs him down, loads his muscles with lead and cement and ashes. So many ashes that he can smell his own flesh burn and combust, baring his bones for the world to see.
“Come sleep with me.” It’s a whisper and the sound of his wife’s voice is worse than the furious march of tanks.
He’s repulsed by his wife―and repulsed by the fact that he’s repulsed by his wife.
*
There’s a mist of constant anger following Anna and her mother can’t read its reasons behind it. She wants her father back―she needs her father back now that she ended up pregnant with the child of a veteran more dead than the dead.
She’s only sixteen and she’s having a baby she doesn’t want with a man that doesn’t see her through the curtain of what he’s already seen.
‘46 is the year Love died, or so it feels as Y/N cries bitter tears in the desolate solitude of the kitchen. It’s like war didn’t end, like it brought back a monster that still has to exhale its last breath.
Sometimes she thinks she sees it. In the vacuous look in her husband’s eyes. In John’s stubborn studies. In the mess the twins give birth to every single day without cease. Even in William’s eerie silence, and she’s glad he’s off to school, now, she’s glad the week has finally started again and has brought him away for a few days.
There is no escaping what the monster does to people. Anna could get rid of the baby if she weren’t that scared, but she can’t get rid of her husband. Can’t kill off the only man she’s ever loved and that has always treated her like a queen, worshipping her like one worships God in a temple.
“Why doesn’t he say anything?” Rage burns her only daughter’s voice as she stomps into the kitchen, purposefully loud as if she’s trying to catch her father’s attention, to rile a reaction out of him the way warm water and baking soda help you vomit. “Why doesn’t he say anything?!” Voice louder, tears are burning hotter than her anger on her cheeks and there’s no stopping the furious movement of her hand, which reaches up to wipe them away.
“Anna-”
“NO!” It booms and echoes in the cramped space of the kitchen of that countryside house. It rattles against the dishes in the cupboard, scratches the wood on the walls, hits the thick panels of the windows as it scorches the girl’s throat, threatening to punch out her teeth. “Don’t do this, don’t treat me as though I don’t understand shit!”
They cry―it’s unwanted and almost humiliating, for everybody’s trying to ignore the elephant in the room, but they still do cry together, clutching at each other like they both were unyielding rocks under the onslaught of the sea. They cry and they do so in vain, for Anna’s still pregnant and Y/N’s still hated. Those tears don’t change the new reality of things and while the hiccups disrupt the otherwise gravel silence of the house, nothing happens.
Nothing can happen.
Probably nothing ever will.
“I need him and he’s a fucking ghost.”
When they look back at it in a few hours, neither will be able to say with complete certainty who pronounced those words, for they belong in both of their mouths. Y/N craves love, Anna - a father, and neither can have any.
*
John is high. He’s so high it’s a miracle he’s not floating mid-air and while his mother knows how good snow can feel, she still cries bloody tears when she sees her son like that.
John, ahead of his peers and studying psychology to help build a better world from the inside, is just as shattered as everybody else. He lies on the grass, under the shadow of an oak and the blue sky of a late-May afternoon.
And for a blind moment, Y/N thinks she’s lost him to the family’s very own sin. And she almost pukes right then and there, turned away as she is towards the flowerbeds she’s spent so much time tending to―it doesn’t matter that the house is surrounded by flowers planted in the hopes of forgetting, for nobody seems to be able to see them anyway.
But then he smiles, and he calls her over, and for a second she can see a glimpse of how Michael used to look like. The boy lost John Shelby’s looks and resemblance right before turning ten and has since then started down a path that was bound to make him stand out like his father’s very copy. Beautiful and strong and just as passionate about life and horses as one could be.
Life and horses and Tokyo.
“You are so beautiful, Mum,” he says, knocking the air out of her lungs as she stands there, frozen in time and space as she stares down at him. “You shouldn’t cry so much. Red eyes don’t look good on you.”
For a weird, unknown reason she bursts out laughing. She doesn’t know when the last time she laughed was, and John doesn’t recall it either.
It feels good, liberating, even. She didn’t think she still had it in herself to produce such sound, to let go in a burst of unexpected laughter induced by a second-hand high. But it’s good and for a moment, it makes her forget better than gardening has ever done.
“Where did you find it?” The words are out before she can stop them―she doesn’t want to know. She doesn’t want to know who gave her precious son a pinch of that artificial happiness that’s still staining his nostrils.
John looks happier than he’s ever looked in the last six years and a half. He looks like himself once again and she’s terrified to the bone by this thought―by this realisation―by the fact that there’s still a glimpse of the real him just because he’s managed to find the Devil’s powder somewhere she can’t even name.
“Charlie,” he answers with a chuckle almost as if to ask her Who else do you think has coke to spare, uh, Mum? The name also rings like an accusation, acid and scorching like an unwanted truth―It’s always been in the family and always will be. We’ll turn into snow when we die. And then we go straight to hell. “It’s good shit.” His dreamy eyes are more terrifying than the appalling screams tearing her husband’s body apart from the inside. “Have some with me.”
She doesn’t. The need to is strong, buzzing with a life of its own in her very veins with the same intensity it burned in Michael’s just a month before, the night he ordered her to go back to sleep before walking out naked of their shared room.
“Isn’t this the best feeling in the world?” Johnny asks and she lies―Yes. Yes, it is.
But she’s crying. She’s crying silent tears that stream down her ashy face like rivers. Their saltiness tastes like blood between her parted lips and she’s sure that they’re staining her teeth red, turning her mouth into that of a monster.
That’s the first time she thinks her family is dying, slowly falling apart between her numb, useless fingers, under her heart as heavy as a tombstone. It wrecks her from the inside out, a little more with each minute she passes staring into her son’s blissed-out eyes.
Yes, it’s the best feeling in the world, she cries, holding him between trembling arms as she feels old and decomposed inside.
*
Tommy’s visit is unexpected that night. And for a moment, his possessed face is all Y/N can see as she does her best not to recoil in front of that ghost as she keeps the entrance door open.
“Can I come in?”
His voice rings foreign to her ears, paper rustling in the wind, aged by years spent smoking―and then screaming. His whole face appears alien, a haunting vision out of a blood-freezing nightmare.
She doesn’t answer, but she does step back―enough to let him see the bare hall but not enough to let him pass. And it’s not because she doesn’t want him in her house, but because she can’t move, rooted as she is to the stone floor she scrubs every morning, from four to six, just to keep her own mind distracted after the restless night she’s had.
Henry and Paul follow the man with their heads hanging low and they, too, look like a spectral vision. Bloodied faces, crumpled clothes. Two fourteen-year-olds suddenly aged into old men.
She’s on the verge of fainting.
She’s weak and trembling inside, eyes almost bulging out of their sockets and she doesn’t even know why. Doesn’t know why the world is spinning and her throat constricting, vomit threatening to make an appearance after the tasteless dinner she’s still recovering from.
Yes, it’s the best feeling in the world. She now wishes she had kept her son’s cocaine because she could so use a snort right about now.
If nothing, it’s a blessing that Michael is in bed already―that he hasn’t moved from the mattress the whole day. A lack of reaction on his part is what would make or break her―break her most likely.
“Where is Michael?”
She doesn’t answer. Her tongue is knotted and her mouth is stuffed―with what, she doesn’t know, but it has the strangely familiar taste of nightmares. Her hand is still on the door handle: if she lets go, she’s going to fall. She’s going to fall knees first to the floor and there’s nobody there willing to pick her up―not her sons, not her husband’s cousin.
He’s seen too much already―Tommy. He’s marched through two wars and the extra years he’s been granted in France after the Great War have been wasted away between France and Germany now, possibly even Italy―she doesn’t know for sure―doesn’t want to know for sure.
Y/N wants to speak but can’t. Wants to ask her children what’s wrong with them and why do you want to break your mother’s heart? You stop being you the moment you give birth to your children, or so she’s always thought. Life starts again with a new Day One and all that came before that was extra. But now motherhood feels like lead shoes, pulling her down to the bottom of the ocean as her lungs fight against the salty water, fight for oxygen, fight for-
She doesn’t know, not anymore.
“They’ve been going at it again,” Tommy says, looking around and taking in the bare walls of a once well-decorated house. There had once been wind chimes hanging from the ceiling on the middle of the hall, but they’re not there anymore. And Tommy knows why. “Paul more than Henry.”
He says this almost as though Y/N knows what he’s talking about. The truth is, she doesn’t. And as soon as he’s going to leave, the twins are going to go upstairs without even glancing in her direction. That’s how it always goes, how her heart keeps on breaking day in and day out. There’s no rest. Absolutely no rest from that kind of torture.
“I’ll keep an eye on them, but…” He trails off, averts his eyes from hers almost as though the sight of her has burned him. He breathes in deeply and for a moment he keeps the air there, somewhere in-between his nose and his brain, afraid he’s going to smell blood or gunpowder or the acrid stink of war. “You keep one on them, too.”
The best feeling in the world―she’s not even sure she remembers what such a thing is. Nor if it even existed and she was there to witness.
She nods, and it’s all she can do.
“Keep them home for a week. The waters need to calm down.” These words make her gag, but she’s quick at swallowing it, at looking away―from the devil and from her sons. Then, Tommy reaches the door again, takes her hand off the handle. It’s not a gentle touch―he pries her fingers off the brass knob and that’s it. Dead fingers touching dying fingers―it doesn’t matter that her nails are painted a calm shade of pink, pale cyclamen on a spring morning. “Two is better.”
He leaves without turning back, without telling her it’s all going to be okay, that he’s there for her and her family, that he’ll come back, sooner or later. There’s no solace for her soul, sick and tired and on the brink of the abyss, staring up at her with its raping, hungry eyes. There are no words for wives like her, for women like her, left behind even when the husbands are back, breathing.
The best feeling-
She’s sobbing before she has the chance to feel the sob, to feel the tears sting her desensitised eyes. And she’s clutching a hand over her mouth because she can’t make a noise, can’t make a noise, can’t make a noise. Not in this house, not in this world.
“Mum?”
She wants to scream at them, wants to kick them out―out of the house, but not out of her life, she couldn’t take it, couldn’t-
“Mum?”
There’s a hand on her shoulder and the contact makes her jolt―almost jump out of her fucking skin.
They can’t see her like that.
And at the same time, part of her wants them to see. Wants them to know they’re not the only ones suffering.
Greedy bastards.
And she’s scared of that sudden, intrusive thought in the desolated land her mind has become.
“We’re sorry, mum.”
And when they hug her, Henry from one side and Paul from the other, she cries even harder because she’d do anything in her power to give her children a better alternative ending, but she can’t. She doesn’t have the power, doesn’t have the strength.
“So sorry.”
The best feeling in the world is that of the memories long forgotten in the deepest part of her mind, inside that red room she’s had to securely lock back in ‘39. A sunny September day it had been, still tasting like August and summer and the lovemaking sessions under a starry sky her husband had gifted her.
This is…
This is not…
“We’ll be better.”
And she cries because she knows the promise is sincere―fate just isn’t. Fate is against them, a growing tide ready to kidnap anything and anyone on the shore, staring up at an unforgiving moon.
It will last for a day, maybe a week, but soon enough she’ll have to witness her twins’ return home bloodied and battered, and she’ll have to live this moment again.
And again.
And then once more.
And one day Tommy will come home to tell her that her boys have died, that someone has stabbed them both to death and Quick! and Come! Before they bleed out in the middle of the street!
Her worries leave her mouth without her knowing she’s spilling them, bullets of a machine gun travelling a thousand miles a minute, hitting flesh and bone and brick. And soul.
They let her cry until there are no tears left, until she can barely stand on her feet, her right hand back wrapping around the door handle.
The best feeling in the world is a cocaine-induced orgasm, but she doesn’t tell them.
*
Bill is home from school. One more week and she’ll have to endure his presence for the whole summer. She’s terribly aware of how wretched a mother she sounds like, but she thinks this for his own good.
She doesn’t want him at home, at home where everything hurts and the silence eats him alive. Eats them all alive. She wants him away, in some far-away boarding school, someplace where nobody has ever heard of war or grief or silence and every day is a blessing.
Where is Dad? he wants to know with a smile on his face.
He’s a kid―he’s still her baby, the one she held in her loving arms back in ‘35, when shit still had to pop. She’s loved him then and she loves him now, but she’s a liar.
Y/N is a mother and a liar.
“Sleeping,” she answers, stretching a terrifying smile across her lips.
She’s making apple pie―the family’s all-time favourite―and Billy is helping her, pouring cinnamon on freshly cut apple slices with those tiny-but-growing hands of his.
Do you think he’ll enjoy his birthday present?
Oh, honey, I’m not even sure Daddy knows what day it is today, she wants to say but keeps quiet. “He’ll love it, baby.”
William always blushes when she calls him ‘baby’―I’m not a baby anymore, Mummy. And she smiles because he still calls her ‘Mummy’ when the rest of her kids have stopped calling her that before they turned ten. He’s her precious ray of sunshine on a stormy day, somehow managing to pierce the thick layer of clouds covering all sources of light.
But he doesn’t complain today. William is mute, not deaf, and he knows his Mummy cried herself to sleep in the living room last night. It’s his favourite, he signs, fingers wet and sprinkled with cinnamon.
And she hums and for a moment she feels like singing as she’s always done in the past. But she doesn’t, she can’t feel the music inside herself, can’t even conjure up the names of the notes. “We all love it,” she adds, turning back towards the dough she’s somehow correctly making. “You’ll be an amazing chef one day. Everybody will know William Gray’s name from Los Angeles to Tokyo.”
She’s glad Will doesn’t know what Tokyo can be―nor that she’s had a pinch, a few days before, and that that’s been her fuel for a whole day, keeping her up on her feet when all her knees wanted to do was give out under her weight.
It’s almost four in the afternoon when Anna joins them, baby bump barely peeking from underneath the yellow sweatshirt she hopes would help brighten up her day. Andrew hung himself the month before and the unexpected baby won’t have a father for real, now.
She’s used coke, too, a couple of times. Probably not the best choice when there’s a baby involved, but snow always helps everybody, whether it comes from the sky or some back-alley pusher.
“Hey, Billy-boy.” She ruffles William’s loose curls and everybody knows he hates it, but he still smiles at his sister from underneath beautifully long lashes.
Ten years old and he’s probably the more mature in the house. He sees right through the lie, but doesn’t make you feel guilty for lying, doesn’t kick you with the donkey-kick of a priest. Hey, Annie-girl.
She chuckles at the nickname and before she can second-think it, she kneels down and kisses his fingers one by one and then the tip of his nose and hugs him as tight as only a big sister can do. The sight warms Y/N’s heart and for a moment she stands there, tea cloth in one hand and wet kitchen counter forgotten.
The best feeling in the world has the taste of her children hugging, not the bitter one of snow. And it’s warm and bright and breathtaking―utterly breathtaking even now, on the edge of the unknown.
“You’re a good kid,” Anna murmurs in her brother’s ear and then she gasps and freezes and it takes Y/N a while to look up from her kids to see what has shocked her daughter so much.
The world stands still for a minute as she stares at him from the other side of the kitchen. It’s a scary view, it truly is, but it tastes like the sweetest lie, even if he doesn’t say anything, even if it looks like he barely registers his wife or two of his children’s presence in the room.
And then, the spell snaps and it breaks and all Y/N can see is the revolver in his left hand.
The children are out before they have the chance to complain, to tell her that they’d rather stay, that I’ve heard of shit happening, Mum, and I don’t want to bury you in that sweet and worried voice of her daughter that will plague her forever if things go wrong.
“Baby.”
She hasn’t called him ‘baby’ in forever and the word has a weird weight on the tip of her tongue right before it jumps out. The tea cloth is on the floor, forgotten, and she takes slow steps in her husband’s direction, bare feet against bare stone as she tries to ground herself in the moment, to not let her mind wander off. This is not a rabid dog she can shoot in the back of the head, this is her husband, her best friend, the love of her life.
“Baby.”
He’s breathing hard and fast, and when she’s close enough to touch him, she can feel his warmth―his heat. There’s no need to touch him to know he’s feverish, no need to read more in the goosebumps dotting his skin than the temperature rising higher in his body.
“People were here to hurt you.” It feels like each and every word he speaks pains him as his chest rises and falls and the air comes out scorching hot from his flaring nostrils. “Hurt you.” He cradles the side of her face with his right hand and the gun in the other presses its side against her cheek. There’s no menace in the action, just a husband holding his wife’s face and forgetting about the weapon he’s still clutching on to. “Hurt you.”
He doesn’t see her―his gaze is vacuous and distant―and it’s almost as though he can’t feel her, for the pads of his fingers press harder into the soft flesh of her cheeks.
There are tears on his face and those are the first thing John sees when he rushes into the kitchen from the door that gives on the back yard and the fields beyond, where Anna or William probably found him right after leaving the room. And they’re what stops him in his tracks, ready as he is to lunge himself on his father and push him away from his mother.
“Killed the kids,” he’s saying―Michael―and he sounds pained, more pained than he does at night when the horrors behind his closed eyelids wake him up. “Wanted to rape you.”
Anna is late at covering William’s ears, at shielding him from words whose meaning he doesn’t know, not yet. Snow and rape are still terms in the vocabulary he hasn’t reached yet―and hopefully he never will.
“They wanted to hurt you.”
It’s a blessing that John has managed to hide all the bullets he found in the house and that his father’s gun is not loaded. If it comes down to violence, he knows it won’t end with a bleeding hole in his mother’s chest.
“Dad?”
Michael moves almost as though he’s standing in the fog, fog so thick that both sound and light get distorted into nightmarish visions and sounds.
“Come outside, let Mum go.”
*
Summer ticks by painfully slowly and out here, in the country, the nights are silent. Cicadas are quieter than they ever were and it’s almost as though they know they shouldn’t disturb the warhorse.
Not even when he’s awake.
It’s a foreign feeling, that of being touched by her husband once again, of having him pumping inside her as he keeps himself propped up on his elbows, his hands cradling her face, his eyes focused on a spot right above her head, on the pillow.
It’s not love, it’s barely the shadow of what love used to feel like between the two of them, but it’s not violence, either―Michael came back many things from the war, but not a violent man. It’s the desperate attempt of going back to normalcy, of feeling alive again even when your limbs are cold and your loins feel dry. It’s tasteless and mechanical, but not meaningless.
This is not the best feeling in the world, but it can be, one day. It can be.
It will be again, Y/N knows it, and she’s willing to wait, she’s willing to help if he allows her.
Even now, her hands are soothing on the tense muscles of his back and on the ridgy scars left behind by God knows what kind of horrors. And her lips are warm against the cold sweat layering the skin of his neck, and her words soft―honey-like in his ear as she tries to bring him back home, bring him back where he’s loved and cherished and safe.
It’s silent. Their new lovemaking sessions are silent even when he pants above her, lost in some memory of his, in some feeling of his as he thrusts into her, trying to remember what it used to feel like.
He’s not back yet, Billy said that day in the kitchen, too wise for his own age and sake. But he will be. Don’t worry, Mummy.
She doesn’t worry, not when her son’s words meant the world to her back then―not when they still mean the world to her right now.
There is still hope and this is what she thinks of when Michael lies on his back, skin flustered and sweaty and breath short and ragged, his eyes staring up at a ceiling she doesn’t know if he’s seeing or not. He’s trickling out of her, down her thigh and onto the mattress, but it doesn’t matter, she doesn’t care.
She looks at him and she thinks that there’s still hope, that one day they’ll be back in their Birmingham bedroom and he’ll take out those stupidly expensive Parisian earrings from her ears and he’ll unclasp her diamond necklace. And he’ll let it fall to the ground―as carelessly as only he can―as he worships her body with his own.
Her fingertips are butterfly wings on the skin of his abdomen―still tight and soft as ever, maybe just not as full. She traces one of his scars, circles her bellybutton, and then plays for a moment with his happy trail. She stares at it and the only thought in her mind is, Oh, how I wish you still knew what the best feeling in the world is!
He’s ticklish, he’s always been, on his abdomen, behind his knees. He’s not as much now, but his body still tenses under her touch, an involuntary reaction she’s quite sure he’s not even aware of. She doesn’t know whether he felt her around him just a while ago, doesn’t know whether he’s heard her sweet nothings whispered like prayers in his deaf ears.
But when she looks up at him, she finds him looking down at her, brows slightly furrowed in a questioning expression, almost as if he’s wondering When did she get here?
He doesn’t touch her, doesn’t move his hands―his right one from his stomach and the other from the mattress. He doesn’t touch her but his eyes still caress the features of her face, trail down her naked body and then back up. It’s like he’s seeing her for the first time after a long absence, like he’s not just been sheathed inside her for the better part of the last two hours, trying to make himself feel something again.
“I’ll be waiting for you,” she says, and her whisper floats up to him and makes his eyes sting. “However long it takes.”
What do you think of this story? Please, let me know in a comment/reblog or through the chat or ask box, it would mean the world to me to know what your reaction to this was!! 💛
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The Devil’s Daughter
Thank you so much, guys, for the amazing feedback, I never would have guessed that this story was doing so well. The movie and characters are so great to work into the idea I head. I hope you will like the next part to. Let me know what you think. If you want to be on the taglist let me know, too. Happy reading and have fun.
and thank you again to Lucy @fanficsrusz for the proof reading
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Warnings: smut, slight cursing, angst
Words: 1740
Part 4
“You have” he breathed harshly. “Witchcraft in your lips, my lady.” William moaned, letting his fingers run through your hair. Your tongue was moving along his cock, feeling the hard ridges of his bulging organ. He threw his head back against the pillow, enjoying the pleasure you were giving him, his hazel eyes closed tightly. It had been so long since last he felt the mouth of a woman on his body, thank god his wife didn’t know that his business trips consisted of nightly visits with a lady. “I’ll make my…mhmm… heaven in a lady’s lap.” he quoted his own play Henry VI holding tightly to your tresses.
All too soon the coil in his belly exploded and he felt his seed shoot into your mouth, your tongue lapping up everything you could as you still slowly bobbed your head. And yet looking down at you weren’t Williams familiar eyes. No, those were a deep brown, the throes of satisfaction still evident in them.
Johnathan gasped loudly, not from bliss but from the shock at seeing you, in front of him. The sight you offered, bared for all to see got him aroused again, though he didn’t know if it was just his imagination or if it was real. He remembered taking Midnite’s advice and went to sleep, trying to get as much downtime as possible, so what was he doing here with you quoting William Shakespeare to the daughter of the devil.
Swallowing the last bit of his cum, you wiped along your lower lip catching the evidence of his pleasure. Crawling over his body you lowered yourself on his lap, feeling his length harden again. Your hips moved involuntarily, circling the head of his cock before it slipped into your warm channel. The veins stroking your moist heat as you moved your body up and down, using your hands on his shoulders for leverage.
Constantine swallowed another cry of pleasure as you writhed above him, putting his hands on your hips to help you move for him. Leaning down you laid your lips over his, snaking your tongue in his mouths in a love filled kiss when suddenly the door to his chambers were thrown open.
Wide eyed you both turned to the entrance. Looking over your shoulder you saw Balthazar standing next to a woman holding onto a baby. A girl by the looks of it.
“Well, well Y/N, I didn’t know you liked your lovers to be married and already with child.” he smirked, leaning against the wall opposite the bed.He had hated the man with a passion and now it was time for a payback
Shocked you looked down at your lover, seeing the disbelief in his eyes.
“William?” the woman asked avoiding looking at you both as she shielded the child from the sight of your bare bodies.
“You never told me, Will.” you whispered so softly that he had to strain and John knew that it was going to be ugly, although he wasn’t sure why you called him Will. He recognized Balthazar, but that scum bag was dead, blown up when he tried to prevent Mammon from entering the world of the living.
Hastily you got up, wrapping the sheet around you hoping that at least one tiny fragment of dignity was left to you. “The course of true love never did run smooth.” you lamented, tears glistening in your eyes as your lover turned to you. “I hope you will rot in hell, William Shakespeare.”
“Y/N.” he called, getting out of the bed, not caring for his body bared to his wife and the demon of hell. You swiftly passed by the blonde woman, apologizing quietly. “Y/N, wait!” John cried again, his hand outstretched hoping to reach you, but all he heard was the anguished howl of your broken heart.
Constantine woke with a loud scream, sitting up in his bed. Sweat beads running from his forehead down to his neck, making him shiver in the cool air of his apartment. He wasn’t sure what had pulled him out of this god forsaken dream but he had a feeling that it was something important.
Suddenly his phone was ringing, a very common occurrence with being an occult detective and exorcist but still he’d like his freedom, just this once. John got up, not used to the shrill sound after such a vivid dream, still feeling the effects of your body on top of his own. Making his way to the kitchen table he reached out for the phone, asking himself when he had just saved the world from Mammon, why he was called upon again?
“This better be important.” he growled into the receiver listening to the harsh breathing on the other end of the line
“John?” He knew that voice.
Staring at the display, disbelief crossed his features as he heard the voice of his dead apprentice, well, friend to be honest. It couldn’t be, he was there when the young man had died from Gabriel’s assault.
“John?” Chas repeated again. “A-Are you there. It’s kind of p-pouring outside and I’m really c-cold right now.”
Clearing his throat, the warlock put the phone back to his ear, finally giving the young man an answer. “Chas? W-What, how?” Swallowing the lump that had build in his throat he tried to form sentences that made sense and not just stutter on the other end. “Where are you?”
“Um, to be honest, I’m not really sure.” he answered and Constantine could already picture him scratching his head. “I remember the hospital. Then there was fire and darkness. I saw a woman there.” he stopped taking a deep breath. “She pushed me down, a-and I was falling but then I woke up in this alley.”
Not sure how to reply, John rubbed his temples, the urge for getting that cigarette he desperately longed for, rising by the second. “Okay, I’ll get you, Chas. But you gotta explain what’s been going on.”
“Uh, sure, John, whatever you want.” With that Constantine ended the call and went to the kitchen table in the middle of his grand apartment. His keys, talisman and gum laid there. Since he had stopped smoking, the exorcist was going through packages of chewing gum like he went through his cigarettes, only positive thing was he wouldn’t die of lung cancer anymore.
»¤«
Another anguished cry filled the back alley though none of the humans walking past the entrance cared enough to investigate. Whoever it was was probably going to die soon anyway, so why should they bother with anybody but themselves.
Your arms wrapped around your naked body, you rocked back and forth. Goosebumps had spread all over, the skin even more pebbled than any normal human’s flesh. The tears were falling rapidly, mingling with the pouring rain as you remembered the day your heart had been shattered into millions of pieces, not even the last part of your mother’s light had survived. Now with being human theses emotions were coming back to haunt you, the wounds on your back still oozing blood that the water falling from the sky washed away.
“Why does it hurt so much!” you cried out, burying your face in your hands. The action only slightly stifled the pained moans escaping your mouth. “Why am I deserving of this!” your voice had grown hoarse from your screams, now only a whisper on your lips. “I only ever served my father.”
Shivering from the cold surrounding you, you hoped there would be a fast way to die, no matter where you ended up because nothing compared to the pain you were feeling now. Mammon could torture you in all his sadistic ways but it would be a relief for your soul to leave this casket made of flesh and bone.
Laying on your back, your arms spread like your former wings, your eyes turned to the weeping heaven, waiting for your final breath to leave your lungs you heard voices coming from the entrance of the alley. Somehow someone still had a heart and had heard your cries.
But shouldn’t this be the end?
Blinking away the droplets of water that were stinging your eyes, you could make out the shadow falling over you. Lightning struck and you saw dark eyes watching you with concern. It was a man, definitely, dressed in a black suit and his hair clinging to his forehead from the pouring rain as he knelled next to your body.
“John!” a voice cried behind you, making the man turn away from you.
Was this Constantine? The one you needed to save and try to redeem yourself?
“What is it, Chas?” he nearly growled looking at his apprentice over your head.
The young man pointed down at you, shock and disbelief evident in his gray eyes. “This is her.” he said, kneeling next to you. His cheeks were tinted in a pink hue, either from the cold or your bare body, you didn’t know. “It’s the woman I told you about.”
Rolling his eyes, the exorcist shed his suit jacket. With sure movements he pulled it of and laid it over your body, hoping to give you back some semblance of warmth and shielding you from the rain. “I know who she is, Chas.” he muttered agitation coloring each word he spoke. John put his arms under your shoulders, pulling you up in his arms and leaning you against his own body. “She is the daughter of Satan, although I’m not sure why she is here.”
“Well her wings are missing.” the apprentice said as he saw the weeping holes on your back. “I don’t think she would shed them like other animals shed their skin.”
Turning his eyes back to you, you could see a small sliver of kindness reflect in them before it was gone. Could you be save with him? The warlock and exorcist John Constantine?
“We need to get her out of the rain or she’ll die just like us. She is human now.” he stood up with ease, your body still supported in his arms as he made his way out of the alley. His only hope was that you would survive the night and not succumb to this kind of death.
He wanted answers and he wanted them coming from your lips.
Part 5
Taglist
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Fuck Feelings ( JJ Maybank)
Pairing: JJ x Character
Inspired by: the song Heather- Conan Gray
Summary: Rose(character) is heartbroken because JJ has a girlfriend and she is trying to hide it. When it is revealed things between JJ and her get pretty heated
(I don't own the gif)
I sat at the old couch, at John B's house, mumbling a new rhythm for the song I was currently writing, with my guitar, right next to me. I remember my self having a passion for writing, since I was a little girl. I would always make up short stories of any kind and write them down in the notebook, I always carried with me. Later, at the age of 12, I discovered my hidden talent in music and had my parents buy me a guitar and pay for guitar lessons. So here I am, heartbroken, sitting on my own in John B' s living room, while my friends are outside enjoying their beer, doing the thing I love the most. Combining music with writing. It helps me take a break and relax, without thinking about my problems and how miserable I feel Without thinking about my parents, who I haven't seen in a month, because they are currently travelling around Europe, in order to "bring the spirit back to their relationship", as they told me when they announced me, that they were leaving. Without thinking about the blonde boy, who is sitting outside with his girlfriend, making my heart break in small pieces. I continue writing my song. It is inspired by him. Why would you ever kiss me? I am not even half as pretty, I am writing, remembering our kiss last week. Really though, why would he kiss me, when he had feelings for someome else? For Melissa. And why would he see me as something more than a friend, when he had her? God she is pretty...And I am nothing compared to her. Melissa moved here, in Outer Banks, about a month ago and from the moment JJ saw her, I could tell he was fascinated by her. Why blame him though? With her long red hair and her ice blue eyes, she looks like a damn godess. No wonder why he was immidiately attracted to her. They have been dating for about a week now. Six days to be precise. I haven't spoken to JJ since our steamy momemt at the beach last Saturday. That kiss meant everything to me, but apperantly nothing to him, considering the fact, that he asked Melissa out the next morning.
A few taps on the window bring me back to reality. I lift my head only to see Kiara tapping on the window, urging me to come outside. And so do I. I know it isn't a really good idea, but what else can I possibly do? As soon as I step outside, I am offered a beer from John B. "Finally my favorite Kook showed up" he says offering me a warm smile. "Hey, I thought I was your favorite one!" Sarah says with a fake hurt look on her face. I smile as John B leans in, connecting his lips to hers, kissing her sweetly "Always", he whispers. I catch my shelf smiling again at the way John B shows his affection for Sarah. I amhappy for them, because I've known Sarah for my whole life and she is one of my best friends, since she lives next door. John B and JJ have been my best friends since 3rd grade, when I met them at the beach. We've been inseparable since then. Later we became really close friends with Pope and Kiara too and now Sarah is part of our group too, despite her differences with Kiara, which are now solved. My feelings towards JJ changed, however. I want more from him and I thought he wanted too, with the constant touches and need to protect me and then that kiss. But as it turned out, JJ 's feelings were not mutual. My happines for the relationship of my friends is overshadowed by the feeling of a gap in my chest. I feel empty without JJ' s touch, without his kisses. I know of course, that I can not have that with him. "What were you doing in there for so long, Rose?", Pope asks me. "Just writing a new song", I reply while shrugging. I don't want it to seem like a big deal, because the lyrics are really personal. "I am already done with the music, but the lyrics are not finished yet". "Oh can I read it?", Pope asks with excitement in his voice. He is always hyping me up whenever I write a new song and he is always the first one to read it when it is finished, but I don't want anyone to lay eyes on this one. It is too personal. "No, not yet. Only when it's done. You know me", I reply chuckling so that I can sound cool and act like nothing is making me uncomfortable about this whole situation. I feel a cold breeze. " I am cold", I say, not really expecting a reply or something. Just to change the subject. "Yeah, me too.", says Melissa, with her annoyning voice. Why is she here again? Is she becoming part of our group now? JJ takes his hoodie off, revealing his grey sleevless shirt, underneath it. He takes it and offers it to her. Ouch...that hurt...I look away, as she takes it in her hands, ready to wear it. Sarah notices and gives me her "we'll talk about it later" look
Suddenly a rush of insiration hits me and I quickly grab my pen and notebook to add a few more lyrics. You gave her your sweater. It's just polyester, but you like her better. I wish I were Heather. I write concentrated, while a tear escapes my eyes. These lyrics describe my emotions. I am in a bad mental state. I want to be Melissa so bad. I want to be the one JJ hugs and kisses. I love him so much, but I am not good enough.
Looking up, I realisedJJ is eyeing me, a confused look on his beautiful face. Oh, he is so handsome. This is the first time I look at him in a week. I missed seeing his expressions change and I missed starring at those gorgeous blue eyes, I so much love. "Hey", John B says, "what's wrong Rose?". I do not reply, trying to stop the other tears that escape my eyes. But I can't. It isn't like me to show my emotions like this. I don't bother the others with the way I feel. Somehow, however JJ can always understand it, when something is wrong and we always discuss it privately. But this time I can't talk to him about any of it. "It's that thing you're writing, isn't it Williams?" JJ asks, calling me by my last name as usual. "It's none of your bussiness", I answer with a harsh tone. JJ' s eyes widen by my sudden outburst towards him. If he only knew how much damage he had done to me, he wouldn't be. "Give it to me. I wanna see it.", he demands. "NO!", I respond yelling, while more tears begin to run on my cheeks. "What the fuck is up with you Williams ? You stop talking to me for a week and now you will not let me read what you're writing. Do you think this is okay?", JJ snaps too, yelling at me, looking me straight in the eye. "Like you care about me not talking to you", I say sarcasticaly in a much lower voice. "Of course I fucking care Williams. You would not even look at me the entire time. Why?" "Why do you fucking care? You don't need me anyway, now that you have found a girlfriend, do you?" I know how jealous I sound, but i can't help it anymore. My four friends and Melissa look at as confused, although the last one looks pretty annoyed too. "Is that it? You act all weird because I have a girl? Or because that girl isn't you? It's the kiss, isn't it? Are you jealous Rosalie?",JJ replies with a tone of brag in his voice. He is being so mean and arrogant right now, like my feelings don't matter. He knows how I feel, but he doesn't care. This hurts. A lot. And the fact that he used my whole name, makes it worse, because I can tell how serious this is. All five of the others gasp when the hear about our kiss. "What the fuck?", Melissa starts talikng. "You want my man, bitch? Well it ain't gonna happen. He's mine.", she says looking at me. I give her a deadly stare, unable to speak. But it is good enough, cause if looks could kill, she would now be dead. I see as JJ turns around to look at his so called hirlfriend, his face red drom anger. "I am not a fucking object you can call your own!", he yells at Melissa. Her eyes open widely, scared of his angry outburst. John B interfears, trying to calm him down, but JJ, just pushes him away, turning his gaze towards me again. "Well", he says, "I am waiting for an answer Rosalie", he tells me angrily. I just stare at him, words unable to escape my mouth. "I...I am...I gotta go", I mumble looking away. "Rose", I hearKiara and Sarah say in unision, but I don't turn to look at them, alredy imagining the looks of pity for me im their eyes. I quickly leave John B' s house, while hearing him and my two girl best friends yelling at me to come back. I start running, in order to go home. I need to get away from here as quickly as possible. Oh, how emotionaly exhausted I feel...
Part 2 is out too
#jj maybank#obx#outer banks#jj imagine#rudy pankow#jj angst#john b#kiara carrera#sarah cameron#pogues style#the kooks#conan grey#heather#song fic#fan fiction#obx fanfiction#obx fandom#jj fandom#jj fanfiction#jj maybank x character
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William Nylander: Part 8
Word count: 2092
“And why did the whistle blow now?” I question, snuggling closer to William.
His arms tighten around me by instinct. “Offside.”
I throw my head back and let out a loud groan, which causes him to laugh.
“What?” He asks, fingers brushing my bicep lightly.
“We’ve been watching this game for three hours and I still don’t know what offside is!”
“Babe, I explained it to you ten times in ten different ways, I don’t know how you still don’t understand.”
I grumble, sigh, and return my attention to the game. William and I have been hanging out a lot since we first kissed, which was only a week ago. I find any excuse I can to leave my apartment and it’s stench of alcohol and weed to come over to Willy’s to watch some TV and cuddle and kiss.
The hockey player’s phone buzzes on the couch next to him and he picks it up, texting whoever it is back. I have to refrain from peeking at his phone. He sets it back down on the cushion, clearing his throat.
“Some of the boys and their wives and girlfriends want to come over and hang out, are you okay with that?” He asks. I love how he checks and makes sure that I’m comfortable with the idea of his friends coming over instead of just springing it on me. It’s a breath of fresh air from what Mills does.
“Yeah I’m okay with that.”
“Okay, they’ll be here soon.”
We wait in silence for his friends to get here. I’m supposed to be watching the game, but I slowly drift into my thoughts. I’ve only met and talked to William’s friends two times, when I saw them and had breakfast with them that one day and also when I went to the game.
It’s not that I don’t like them, I do, I’m just worried that they don’t like me. I don’t know how much Willy’s told them about me and I don’t know how much their opinion of me would change if he were to tell them about everything I’ve done.
I want to get to know them better because they’re a part of Willy’s life and I want to be more involved with his life, but that includes the approval of his friends.
When his friends arrive they just walk through the door. I’m surprised that so many of them showed up but I shouldn’t be- the team is comprised of like, thirty different guys. They take seats around the room, greeting us and settling in like they live here.
“Have you guys all met Y/N?” William asks. Everyone nods and I get a few smiles, which relieves my nerves.
“What are you guys doing?” Mitch asks.
��I’m trying to teach her how to understand hockey,” he explains.
Now they exchange looks of confusion, which makes me nervous once again. What? Do they only hang out with hockey players? Is it dumb that I don’t understand hockey, will they look down on me now?
“Y/N, where are you from?” Auston asks.
“Toronto, born and raised,” I answer with confusion.
I don’t understand how my birthplace is relevant to this.
“And you don’t understand hockey?”
I shake my head.
“You’ve never been to a game?”
“Well, I went to a Leafs game a couple of months ago,” I answer.
“But besides that-””Besides that I’ve never been to a hockey game.”
Mitch begins to laugh and Auston looks even more baffled.
“How is that even possible?”
“You can’t make fun of her with that shirt on, Matts,” Willy defends me, tugging me into his lap now.
Everyone starts to laugh at Auston’s hideous tie-dye shirt which he instantly begins to defend.
We watch some more of the game before it reaches the second intermission, which is when some people get up to go to the bathroom and get drinks and a conversation resumes in the room.
“You know, if you really want to understand hockey the best way to do it is to go to an actual game,” Zach points out.
“But then who would explain things to me? Would I just Google my questions?” I inquire.
“I can teach you hockey!” Alannah exclaims. “I’ve been to just as many hockey games as these fools, I know the rules just as well as they do. Seriously, come to the game tomorrow and I can explain everything to you.”
“Yeah, that sounds fun,” I agree.
“Looks like you’re being replaced, Will,” Kasperi teases.
I can practically feel the jealousy start to radiate off of him and he moves his arms from casually resting over my shoulder and knee to grip my waist. I giggle at the action, resting a hand over his arm softly. He starts to calm down instantly.
I turn my head towards him so my face is two inches away from his. “No need to be jealous, shortcake, Alannah’s just a friend,” I joke quietly.
He smiles at me, leaning forward to kiss my cheek.
“You two are so cute,” Alannah sighs dreamily.
“Ah, young love. Remember when we were like that, Matts?” Mitch asks Auston lovingly. Auston rolls his eyes as we all laugh.
“So when did you guys start dating?” Kasperi questions.
“Oh, we’re not dating,” I answer, making sure to avoid eye contact with Willy.
“Yet,” he adds.
Everyone makes noises in response before the conversation moves onto something else. I just snuggle into Willy’s arms, listening in.
~
I screech in excitement, gripping the blonde’s arm next to me. She giggles at how enthusiastic I am, like she has been doing the whole game.
“Did you see that pass connect, Alannah? Zach just hit it and William got it, look at our boys working together!” I cheer.
I’m sure the people around us are annoyed with me by now and it’s only five minutes into the second period. But after all of Willy and Alannah’s efforts, I finally understand hockey. And I love it. I may be biased, but I really love Willy’s playing style and the Toronto Maple Leafs in general.
Everyone tried telling me about their favorite teams growing up but I have a soft spot for the Leafs- I wonder why.
“Oh no, is he okay?” I ask as one of William’s linemates, John Tavares, gets checked into the boards.
“He’s fine, he’s getting up,” Alannah reassures me.
We watch the game with some more comments before it ends, the Leafs winning over the Blues 3-2. Alannah and I wait in excitement for our boys to leave the locker room so we can shower them in kisses and praises. Zach comes out first and makes conversation with us while we wait for Willy.
Finally, the blonde emerges, hair damp and a gray suit covering his body.
“Will, that was such a great game!” I yell, throwing myself into his arms. He manages to catch me and laughs, wrapping his arms under my thighs to support me while my arms go around his shoulders. I bury my face in his neck, inhaling the fresh scent of whatever bodywash he uses.
“Thanks, babe.”
“Did you two lovers want to go to the club with us?” Mitch asks, walking out of the locker room beside Auston.
“Oh,” I hop down, moving to stand beside Willy and wrap an arm around his waist. He returns the favor. “I’m really sorry, boys, but I should be heading home.”
I don’t want to test the waters too much with Mills. He’s been busy with unpaying clients this past week so he hasn’t noticed my absence too much, but I don’t want to push it and be out every day and night all day and night. He for sure would suspect something then and I would get punished for it.
“Okay, maybe next time,” he promises, leaving with Auston.
Willy starts to move us in the direction of the players parking garage and we begin to talk about the game.
He explains some little things that I was confused about and we talk about what we liked and disliked about the game.
“I feel like all you listen to is Post Malone, Will,” I confess with a giggle as he starts the drive home.
“What? I listen to more,” he says defensively, “This is just a really good song.”
“If it’s such a good song then I dare you to sing along,” I tease.
He sends me an amused glance. “Fine, challenge accepted.”
He turns up the volume a little bit, humming along to the beat before attempting to rap along. I can’t help but burst into laughter. I haven’t been this happy in a long time.
And I would love to be this happy forever.
I want nothing more than to be carefree in William Nylander’s expensive-ass car listening to him fail as he tries to rap along to Post Malone for the rest of my life.
I want nothing more than to sit on the couch with Willy and watch game tapes and have his friends come over and talk all night long.
I want to go grocery shopping with him and I want to go to the doctor with him and I want to watch him succeed and fail and I want to have him watch me do those things too.
I want to change. And as much as I would love for Willy to be a big part of my life while I change, I want to do it for me.
I don’t want to rob people anymore. I don’t want to steal from hardworking farmers or even rich people, no matter how much I don’t think they deserve it.
I want to go back to college and turn my life around and someday marry William and have lots of babies with him.
We reach my apartment and he parks at the curb, turning to me and asking softly, “Do you want me to walk you up?”
I shake my head silently. He senses the different vibe in the car and stays quiet, waiting for me to talk. It’s something he’s learned to do after a while- just give me my own space and I’ll tell him what’s on my mind.
I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the headrest. “I don’t want to be with Mills anymore. And I don’t want to live in this apartment anymore.”
I open my eyes, tilting my head to look at him. “And I don’t want to steal anymore or drink anymore or smoke weed anymore.”
“You don’t have to,” he reassures me.
“I have to move out,” I ignore his words, “But this city is so expensive. I’ve been thinking about this for a while and I think my best bet is to go home and beg for forgiveness.”
“Move in with me,” he offers. I give him a look. “No seriously! Stay with me for however long you would like. A day, a month, forever.”
“Willy-””Y/N, it’s your best bet to change your life around. And you’ve taught me so much already, it’s the least I could do to repay you,” he begs.
“What are you talking about, you repaying me,” I scoff.
“Y/N.” His soft tone makes me freeze. He grabs my hand gently, leading it to his lips. “Please let me do this for you.”
“Okay.” I nod.
“Do you know if Mills is home now?”
I shake my head.
“Then I’ll go up with you while you pack your stuff.”
I lead him into the apartment building and up to my floor. I open the door, the strong scent of blood hitting me as soon as I step foot into the room.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, covering my mouth.
William steps in behind me, letting out an, “Oh shit.”
In the middle of the living room is a dead man. He looks to be about our age and I honestly can’t tell how long he’s been dead. The pool of blood surrounding his body makes me want to throw up.
“Mills,” I scream out, tears starting to fill my eyes. “Mills!”
I start to run throughout the small apartment, searching for my ex-lover.
“Y/N, I’m calling the police,” I can barely hear William’s voice over my heartbeat.
Holy fuck holy shit. There’s a dead body in my living room- not only that, but an unknown dead body?
Who is this man? Why is he here? Where the fuck is Mills?
Everything is a blur.
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Romantic, freewheeling, containing fathoms
IT'S early in the piece but maybe the best way to explain the allure of Oliver Stone’s romantic, freewheeling autobiography is to tell you how one of my best friends took on the experience.
My mate, a self-confessed Stone nut, downloaded the audio version of Chasing the Light - as read by the author - and then proceeded to drive around Cork city with the Oscar-winning director and screenwriter for company. “Love how he paints a picture of post-war optimism in New York circa 1945-46,” he messaged me. “Take me there...” Throughout his storied but turbulent career, Stone has certainly taken us places - the steaming jungles of Vietnam, the (serial) killing fields of the American heartland, the fervid political theatre of El Salvador, the grassy knoll. Even if we didn’t always like the destination, more often than not it was worth the journey.
Reading Stone's words in Chasing the Light, it’s impossible not to hear that coffee and cognac voice. The words roll from the page, sentences topped off with little rejoinders, just about maintaining an elegant flow. Drugs are mentioned early and often, while the word “sexy” features half a dozen times in the opening chapters alone. As in his best movies, Stone displays a positively moreish lust for life, at one point referring to how the two parts of the filmmaking process, if working well, are "copulating".
The book tells the story of the first half of his life, up to the acclaim and gongs of Platoon, and it’s clear that his own sense of drama was underscored by his family background, which is part torrid European art flick, part US blockbuster. His mother, Jacqueline - French, unerringly singleminded - grew to womanhood during the Nazi occupation of Paris. She downplayed her striking appearance as the jackboots stomped the streets but quickly scaled the social ladder, becoming engaged to a pony club sort. Enter Louis Stone.
Considerably older than Jacqueline, Louis quickly zoned in after spotting her cycling on a Paris street. In no time Jacqueline has jilted her fiancée (who, remarkably, appears to have turned up as a guest at the wedding), Oliver is conceived and one ocean crossing later, William Oliver Stone is born.
This family contains fathoms, Stone's father straight-laced and Commie-hating on the surface, yet a serial adulterer (even threesomes are mentioned) and positively uxorious towards his own mother. "It was sex, not money, that derailed my father," he writes. Louis's infidelities nixed Jacqueline's American dream, and Oliver’s with it. Jacqueline ultimately cheats on Louis, not simply via a fling but a whole new relationship, and with a family friend to boot.
What’s even more interesting is Stone’s reflections on *how* it was dealt with. Already dispatched to a boarding school, he learns of the disintegration of his family down the phone line. It has the coldness of some of the best scenes from Mad Men, children of the era parceled off to the side even as momentous events in their home life detonate in front of them. As things veer ever more into daytime soap territory, Louis then tells his son he's "broke", echoing the impact of the Great Depression on his own father's business interests.
By now, Stone is unmoored. He has secured a place in Yale but blows it off for a year and heads to Saigon to teach English: "I grew a beard and got as far away from the person I'd been as I could." On his return he decides he is done with academia; he'll be a novelist in New York, much to the distaste of his father. "That's why I went back to Vietnam in the US Infantry - to take part in this war of my generation," he writes. "Let God decide."
And here we are at the pivotal moment in Stone's adult life. Plunged into the strange days of 1968 in the jungle, he recalls a scene in which his patrol group comes under attack, imagining itself surrounded. Time elides and a metre may as well be a mile, explosions going off everywhere and bullets flying amid paranoia and uncertainty that borders on the hallucinogenic. "Full daylight reveals charred bodies, dusty napalm, and gray trees."
Tellingly, Stone focuses on this arguably cinematic episode while other incidents in which he is actually wounded don't receive the same treatment. By the time he leaves Vietnam he has served in three different combat units and has been awarded a bronze star for heroism. So many of his peers were drafted, yet he had decided to go. You never get a direct sense that his subsequent career is in any way a type of atonement, yet it is never fully explained. "Why on earth did you go?" he is asked. "It was a question I couldn't answer glibly."
From this point on, Chasing the Light mainly becomes a love letter to the redemptive power of the cinema, pockmarked with acerbic commentary on Hollywood powerplays. Stone's firsthand experience of jungle combat gives him a sense of perspective that no amount of cocaine or downers can ever truly neutralise, and it also imbues him with a sense of derring-do. At NYU School of Arts, his lecturer is Martin Scorcese, an educational home run. Watching movies is a place a refuge, writing them a cathartic outlet. It leads to visceral filmmaking, beginning with his short film Last Year in Vietnam. That burgeoning sense of career before anything else brings an end to his first marriage - "'comfortable' was the killer word". The seeds are sown for the plot that would germinate into Platoon.
As he moves past the relative disappointment of his first feature, Seizure, the big break of writing Midnight Express, and then onto the speedbump of The Hand, his second movie, Chasing the Light becomes a little more knockabout, though no less enjoyable. Conan the Barbarian, for which he wrote the screenplay, became someone else's substandard vision, Scarface a not entirely pleasant experience as his writing efforts move to the frosty embrace of director Brian de Palma. Hollywood relationships rise and fall like scenes from Robert Altman's The Player. His second marriage, the birth of his son, the slow-motion passing of his father, and all the time Stone is chasing glory on the silver screen.
By his late thirties it feels like he's placing all his chips on Salvador, a brutal depiction of central American civil war based on the scattered recollections of journalist Richard Boyle and starring the combustible talents of James Woods and John Belushi. His own high-wire lifestyle is perhaps best encapsulated in his reference to Elpidia Carrillo, cast as Maria in Salvador: "Elia Kazan once argued against any restrictions for a director exploring personal limits with his actresses, and I wanted badly to get down with her," he writes with delightful candour. Yet ultimately "I convinced myself that repression, in this case, would make a better film." Note: in this case.
Salvador was a slow burner, not an immediate critical or commercial success, but then in the style of a rollover jackpot, it started climbing the charts just as Platoon is about to announce itself to the world. Despite some loopy goings-on, that shoot in the Philippines had never gone down the Apocolypse Now route of near-madness, the drama mainly confined to warring factions within the production team. Ultimately, Platoon was the movie mid-Eighties America wanted to see about Vietnam. The book finishes in triumph, Stone clutching Oscars for Best Director and Best Picture.
There are piercing insights and inconsistencies dotted throughout. Stone lusts after good reviews but rails against the influence wielded by certain writers, such as Pauline Kael. He makes frequent reference to his yearning for truth and factual accuracy, yet hardly raises a quibble with The Deerhunter, the brilliant but flawed movie by sometime ally Michael Cimino which - particularly in the infamous Russian Roulette scenes - delivers an entirely concocted depiction of North Vietnamese forces. But then again, Stone revels in what he says is the ability to "not to have a fixed identity, to be free as a dramatist, elusive, unknown."
We've come to know him more in the decades since - through the menacing Natural Born Killers, the riveting but wonky conspiracy of JFK, the all-star lost classic U-Turn, even the missed opportunity that was The Putin Interviews. As my friend, who is the real authority, correctly observes, Chasing the Light is also weighted with nostalgia for a time when political dramas and anti-war films were smashing the box office, something hard to imagine today.
The second volume, if and when it arrives, will surely make for good reading - or listening. Buckle up your seat belt and take a spin.
-Noel Baker, “Oliver Stone’s freewheeling autobiography tells the story of the first half of his life,” Irish Examiner, Jan 17 2021 [x]
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3000 Beatniks Riot
Half a century before Occupy Wall Street, young protesters occupied Greenwich Village's Washington Square Park. Like OWS, they ended up clashing with the police. Unlike OWS so far, their protest produced a small but practical and lasting change.
In the spring of 1961, the Washington Square Association, a community group of homeowners around the square, appealed to New York City's Department of Parks and Recreation to do something about the hundreds of "roving troubadours and their followers" playing music around the square's turned-off fountain on Sunday afternoons. They were mostly college kids, playing guitars and banjos and singing folk songs. The practice had started in the post-war years, when Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger planted the seeds of the folk musical revival in the Village. By 1961 it had grown enough that both the police and the neighbors found the "troubadours" and the tourists they attracted a nuisance. In his posthumously-published memoir, Dave Van Ronk recalls that there were various cliques in the park: a Zionist group singing and dancing "Hava Nagila," Stalinists, bluegrass fans, folk traditionalists. Black journalist John A. Williams reported that the locals' complaints were not really musical but social: "In the ensuing meetings with city officials, it became apparent that what was opposed was not so much folk singing as the increasing presence of mixed couples in the area, mostly Negro men and white women." In the late 1950s the parks commission began issuing permits to limit the number of musicians, allowing them to "sing and play from two until five as long as they had no drums," Van Ronk writes. This "kept out the bongo players. The Village had bongo players up the wazoo... and we hated them. So that was some consolation." He doesn't mention that those bongo-players were very often black. This racial aspect had an old historical precedent in Greenwich Village. In 1819, white residents of the area complained "of being much annoyed by certain persons of color practising as Musician with Drums and other instruments through the Village."
In 1961 the parks commissioner responded to the complaints by refusing to issue any permits at all. Izzy Young of the Folklore Center and others organized a peaceful protest demonstration. On Sunday, April 9, 1961, a few hundred young people gathered, attracting a few hundred more spectators. Among the latter was eighteen-year-old Dan Drasin, a mild-mannered kid who liked to hang out in the park. He brought one of the big, boxy film cameras of the era and documented the afternoon in a short black-and-white film, Sunday. The film shows clean-cut college and high school kids, many of the girls in Jackie O hairdos and heels, many of the boys looking like the young Allen Ginsbergs with serious, sensitive, owlish faces behind heavy black-framed glasses. They carry hand-written placards and cardboard guitars and argue with the dozens of beefy, florid-faced cops who've shown up. Izzy Young, also bespectacled and in jacket and tie, lectures the cops about the constitutional right to make music as the kids sit in a circle in the dry fountain and sing "This Land Is Your Land" and "The Star-Spangled Banner." As protests go it all looks low-key and polite. Then paddy wagons arrive and the cops haul off one nebbishy young man cradling an autoharp, pushing him into a prowl car. According to Drasin, most of the singers and musicians had left the park, leaving the few hundred spectators loitering around the fountain, when the cops' tempers finally boiled over. They wade into the crowd, shoving boys and girls to the ground, mauling them, dragging a handful into the paddy wagons. Reportedly they knocked some heads with their clubs, although it's not shown in the film. The whole event, Drasin says, lasted maybe two hours.
The next day, the New York Daily Mirror, the conservative Hearst tabloid, ran a giant war-is-over front page headline, "3000 BEATNIKS RIOT IN VILLAGE." Other local papers followed suit. That week's Voice scoffed at the Mirror's "hysterical" coverage, wondering if there were three thousand beatniks in the entire country that Sunday, let alone in Washington Square Park. By May, the outrage caused by the cops' overreaction forced the city to back down and issue permits, a practice that continues to this day.
Among the protesters hauled off that day was the Village character H. L. "Doc" Humes, identified in the Mirror as a "scofflaw" and the "mob leader." Humes was a gregarious polymath, a novelist and raconteur, co-founder of The Paris Review, designer of cheap housing made from old newspapers, director of a lost film updating the Don Quixote story as Don Peyote, LSD pioneer with Timothy Leary, later helper to Norman Mailer when he ran for mayor in 1969, later still a paranoid drug casualty who believed UFOs, CIA and the Pope in Rome were out to get him. He would not have been a stranger to the cops in the park that day. Just a few months earlier, he'd had a very public spat with Police Commissioner Stephen Kennedy.
It started in October 1960, when cops shut down a performance by Lord Buckley at the Jazz Gallery in the East Village. Lord Buckley was a stately man with sleek gray hair and a pointy Daliesque mustache, who often performed in a tux and orated in a plummy, faux-British voice, seeming every bit the vaudeville and burlesque master of ceremonies he once was. But what came out of his mouth was pure hepcat jive he'd learned from the jazz musicians and pot-smokers with whom he'd associated since the 1930s. In the 1950s he started to recast biblical stories, historical texts like the Gettysburg Address, and Shakespeare in White Negro proto-rap: "Hipsters, flipsters and finger-poppin' daddies, knock me your lobes. I came here to lay Caesar out, not to hip you to him." It sounds like novelty schtick today, but in Eisenhower's America there was something inherently subversive about a man who looked like the maitre d' at a fancy restaurant jiving like a viper. "His Royal Hipness" had a lot of fans and friends downtown, where he performed and hung out whenever he was in New York.
The cops halted Buckley's gig because of a problem with his cabaret card. Since 1941, anyone who worked in a New York City nightclub, from performers to the hat check girl and the busboys, had to get fingerprinted and carry a picture ID card. If you had any police record, you couldn't have a card, which meant you couldn't work. It was intended to weed the Mob out of the nightclub business, but it could be disastrous for performers. Billie Holiday, Thelonious Monk and Charlie Parker all had their cards yanked for drug violations; Lenny Bruce lost his because of an obscenity conviction; exotic dancer Sally Rand, refused a card in 1947 because the cops thought her fan dance too risqué, took the NYPD to court over it and won. Buckley lost his because he'd failed to report a pot bust that went back to the 1940s. Without the card, he couldn't perform in New York City, including a scheduled appearance on his old friend Ed Sullivan's tv show (they'd toured together with the USO during the war).
Despondent, Buckley called his pal Humes. Humes talked his Paris Review friend George Plimpton into letting Buckley give a little performance at a party in his Upper East Side apartment, with the idea that Plimpton's influential crowd might help him get Buckley's card reinstated. With Village jazzman David Amram at the piano, Buckley went into his schtick. The response was cool. Plimpton's literary swells had come to sip cocktails and talk about themselves, not listen to Village-y jazzbo jive. Buckley the old vaudevillian worked hard to win them over, pulling out bit after bit, overstaying his unwelcome. As the crowd grew increasingly bored and angry, Norman Mailer started heckling. Amram remembers that Buckley finally gave up, then "came over to the piano and whispered in my ear, 'Let's split and get out of here, man.'"
It turned out to be Lord Buckley's farewell performance. He died of a stroke shortly afterwards, at the age of fifty-four. Art D'Lugoff offered the use of the Village Gate for a memorial service, at which Ornette Coleman and Dizzy Gillespie played for a large crowd of Buckley's friends and admirers. He was laid to out at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel on the Upper East Side, New York's funeral home to the stars. (Rudolph Valentino, John Lennon, Jackie Onassis, Nikola Tesla, James Cagney, Igor Stravinsky, Norman Mailer, Heath Ledger, Judy Garland and Candy Darling were all laid out there.)
Humes, Mailer, Amram and others then started a public campaign to end the cabaret card system. Humes charged that police harassment had killed Buckley, and claimed that if Buckley had only slipped the right cop a hundred bucks the whole thing would have been settled under the table. That enraged Commissioner Kennedy, who retaliated by tossing Humes in jail for unpaid parking tickets and ordering up the biggest crackdown on cabarets and nightclubs in years, sending cops to more than 1200 venues looking for non-card-carrying workers. But this protest worked as well. Kennedy was sacked for his overreaction, and though it took another seven years, the cabaret card system was eventually abolished.
by John Strausbaugh
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Through The Eyes Of The Hurricane
For @cute-fanart
Mid afternoon, clouds were slowly turning gray as the air becomes much colder with each passing moment. The Hamilton family were safely inside their house, all was quiet.
Eliza looked outside the window and saw the leaves being blown away by the strong wind. Looking up to the skies there was little sunlight behind the gray clouds. "I sure hope Alexander is okay" she thought to herself; no one but Eliza knows how uneased and fragile her husband gets during a hurricane, and there have been rumors that one was heading towards town.
Suddenly there was a loud bang which frightened the younger children as they ran inside the mother's bedroom. Little William and little John both ran into their mother's arms holding her tightly as they buried their head and sobbed. Eliza rubbed both the boys' heads and assured them that things were okay. Not long after that her other children Philip along with Angelina Alex jr. and James ran up to find the two boys.
"Sorry Mother," said Philip who was out of breath from running after William and John "We tried to stop them, but-" Eliza assured Philip that things were okay. "I'm sure it was just a big tree branch that broke off and hit the ground"
"I wish Papa were here with us now" said John still clutching onto his mother's dress. "I know darling, me too" said Eliza agreeing with her frightened little lamb. "Why couldn't Papa stay at home with us?" Asked John. "Because he can't fit inside the house stupid!" Snapped Alex jr. Philip smack Alex from behind his head "Watch you tounge!" Eliza quickly intervened before her two older boys started squabbling, "Boys Please, now's not the time for this! Phillip and Alex both lowered their head and apologized for their behavior.
"But John is right" said Angelica, "It would be nice to have Papa around, especially with this hurricane approaching. Say, why don't we go see him now?" Eliza placed John and William on the bed to address her response. "Now Angelica, you know your Father would not approve of us being outside when there's a big storm heading our way. I'm sure he rather that we remain here inside the house." Angelica protest "But think about how lonely he must be. We're all here together inside our cozy little home while Papa's all along in some cold empty tent." "Angie has a point Mother," said Philip agreeing with his sister "It wouldn't hurt to go see him. And if we leave now we can make it before the hurricane starts".
What the children were saying was true, Alexander alone in a tent during a hurricane was all Eliza could think about. Then finally with no hesitation she made her decision "Alright children, we leave immediately; gather only what you can carry with you. The children quickly left the room to get themselves ready, Eliza does the same.
As everyone was attending downstairs the family held hands forming a circle; Eliza led the prayer asking God for a safe travel and for the skies to remain clear until they reach Alexander's tent. Once the pray was finished they all formed a line still holding each other's hands as they made their was to the fornt door. Eliza knew how long the walk was, it would take them an hour or so to reach the tent, but she continued to pray for clear skies and safe travels for herself and her children as they started their journey.
****
The sky slowly turns dark, the wind becomes much colder and heavier. A mile or two away stood large wooded fences wrapping around the mountain sized tent where Alexander Hamilton stays.
Inside all was quiet, all was dark; Alexander stood up on his bed, unable to sleep. The winds started to howl....its coming. Alexander could feel his stomach starting to turn, his warm blood turned boiling hot....it's almost here. A rumbling noise shook Alexander, not long after that rain soon poured down from the skies. The thunder becomes louder....it's here. Alexander sat up on the bed firmly clutching his hands onto the blanket; he closed his eyes and started whispering to himself "It's just the storm.... it's just the storm....it's just th-" Suddenly a loud "BOOM!!!" took Alexander by surprise. He throws the blanket over his head shaking with fear. Hot tears leaked from his face as lightning flashed before his eyes. As the noise finally settled down, Alexander slowly rosed back up still wrapped around his blanket.
"Look at yourself, a fifty foot tall man in his mids twenties still hiding under the sheet like a small child....I'm such an embarrassment" Alexander's stomach felt even more worse than before; how could a man of his great size allow himself to feel so small and weak? Alexander wiped away the tears streaming from his eyes "Thank God Eliza and the children aren't here to see me in this state."
Just when Alexander was about to lay down to sleep he suddenly hears a faded voice calling his name through the pouring rain. He rosed out of bed and placed his hand behind his left ear, the voice seemed familiar to him. He listened carefully....the voice was too familiar "No, it can't be....." Alexander opened up the front of the tent to seek out the voice. From a far distance he could see a small group a people. He squinted his eyes, it appeared to be a woman and six children "E-ELIZA!? KIDS!?" There was no time to hesitate, Alexander quickly grabbed the nearest blanket and rushed out the doorway.
Meanwhile outside, Eliza and the children were huddled together, cold, shivering, scared. Eliza was doing her best to calm her younger children down, she called out through the howling winds "ALEXANDER! ALEXANDER CAN YOU HEAR ME!?!?" No response. The smaller children were scared and cold, the older ones trying to keep each other warm and safe. Eliza feeling like a horrible mother for putting her children in danger like this.
Suddenly a loud voice came out "ELIZAAAAAA!!!" Not too far ahead Eliza spots her husband running towards them, once there Alexander gathered everyone together and place them inside the blanket which was made into a sake. A flash of lightning shook the children, thunder was booming louder than before; but Alexander kept calmed and focused, rushing back toward the tent.
Once they finally made it inside his placed everyone on his desk in fornt of the lite candle for warmth. After finally gaining his breath Alexander turned towards his family "What in the Hell were you all doing, venturing out in THIS weather!? Alexander turned his eyes toward Eliza with great displeasure "Eliza What were you thinking dragging our children in the middle of this sto-" Suddenly Anglieca steps in front of her mother to confront Alexander "Don't yell at her Papa, it was all my idea!! We just wanted to see you!!" Alexander eyes grew bigger after hearing what his daughter said. Phillip walked behind his sister "Easy Angelica," then he stepped forward "Father I insisted Mother that we leave home to come see you. I know it was foolish and dangerous but we couldn't help but think about how lonely you must be during this awful weather....we just wanted to spend time with you during the hurricane. Alexander's turned to his wife again she responds "It's true my love".
Alexander placed his hand onto his chest; he felt his heart sink knowing that his own family made they way through the storm just to be by his side. Still Alexander sighed and then crouched down to make better eyes contact with Eliza and the children. "Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you...but....you all really shouldn't be here". Eliza tries to reason with him "But Alexan-" but was immediately cut off by her husband "You were all safer back at the mansion" said Alexander. Then little John step forward and spoke "But we'd feel even more safer when we're with you Papa." Alexander sighed, his children looked up to him. He didn't have the heart to tell them all that he was just as scared as they were if not more. "Children....please....I-I-"
Just then a loud clash of thunder and lightning causes the little ones to scream; The smaller children were huddled around Eliza for comfort while the older children stayed close to comfort their younger siblings. Alexander could see his small family shaking with fear. He knew for a fact that it would be dangerous to try and bring them back to the mansion during this horrible storm. So, Alexander stoop up tall and wide, swallowed up his fears and addressed his family directly "Alright everyone huddle up together and keep warm in front of the candle. I'll see if I can find some more...and maybe some new clothes for you all to sleep in".
Alexander looked around for some more candles to light up and few small fabrics he could use for clothes. Just as everyone changed clothes and kept warm in front of the fire Alexander did all that he could to distract himself and his family from the hurricane. They started telling stories, some were scarier than others. Then Alexander entertains his family by using his massive hands to make shadow puppets, all the children and Eliza laughed and giggled at each form the giant shadows took. At that point Alexander was so busy enjoying every moment with his family that he nearly forgotten about the hurricane outside.
Hours had nearly passed and the children found themselves getting tired. Alexander and Eliza sang them a soothing lullaby to help them drift off to sleep. When the children finally went to sleep he carefully carried the sleeping children and Eliza to the giant pillow and pulled out a clean handkerchief to be used as a blanket.
Alexander slowly made his way to bed, as he laid down there was a great smile on his face. Eliza could see his smile dispite being half asleep. She asked her husband "Do you still wish we hadn't come here tonight?" Alexander turned towards Eliza and response in a soft tone "well, if I'm being honest....I really have been feeling lonely for a while now" Alexander placed his giant hand in the middle of the pillow, then Eliza slowly moved her tiny hands on top of his. "For what it's worth, I'm really happy to have you all here with me tonight....Thank you Eliza." A few tears ran down from Alexander's eyes as he smiled. "Of course my love" She replies. Eliza moves in closer and kisses Alexander's nose, he starts to blush. Not long after that both Eliza and Alexander slowly drifted off to sleep wearing the same bright smile that not even a hurricane can destroy.
The End.
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