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jirzetta · 5 years

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[TWDG fic] Far Away, A Song [chapter 2/??]

Summary: Injured and exhausted after the fight in the cave, James returns to his camp to tend to his wounds. Plagued by regret and nightmares, he awakes to shambling footsteps.

Character(s): James, later James & Tennessee

Rating: M

Copypasted tags/content warnings from AO3: Angst, Dreams and Nightmares, Canon-Typical Violence, Hand injury, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Ableist Language, Child Abuse, Introspection, Grief/Mourning, Flashbacks, Survivor Guil, tMental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, Dirt and Bugs

Chapter-specific content warnings: implied child death, mentions of death by gunshot, slit throat, head smashed/crushed, choking/strangulation, and falling and breaking ones neck.

Wordcount: ~2360

(has also been published on AO3 under the username the_clattering_train)

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James kicked off his boots, and crawled under the sheltering canvas; onto the bed he had made out of branches and thick layers of dry grass, covered with a blanket and bedsheets so stained from grass and dirt and moisture it was hard to believe they had once been white. He pushed aside the quilted blanket, which at least had been colorful to begin with, and flopped down on his back, only to regret it immediately when he bumped the big bruise on the back of his head, from the rock AJ threw when he-... when they were having their little disagreement. Groaning, he turned over to lie on his stomach instead, and pulled the blanket over his head, to block out the light and outside world.

---

Somehow, he managed to sleep.

Despite his hand burning like wildfire, and having to press his whole body weight down on it to keep it from curling up and hurting more.

Despite not being able to ignore how vulnerable, how stupid he was -had always been- sleeping outside in broad daylight, wounded, alone; with no one who would hear his pleas for help, and no one who would miss him.

Despite having that dream again.

Not the one where he re-lived slitting that poor boy's throat, the one that often mutated into him slitting Charlie's throat, or Charlie slitting his; but the one where his group, his family, finally saw him for the coward he had become.

Where Charlie - his eyes once so soft and full of laughter and warmth and love; now hardened, disdainful, cruel - ripped off James' mask and threw him down on the ground with while the herd, both walkers and Whisperers, circled and closed in on him like slavering, ravenous wolves.

Where James would plead for his life, like he had done so many times before; first to Alpha and Beta, even when he knew how futile it was to expect mercy from them; then to Charlie's mother and father, who once cared for him like a son; lastly to everyone and anyone he hoped would listen, people who were his friends, used to be his friends, but the few names he remembered got stuck on his tongue and he stuttered and choked on them, couldn't get them out.

Out of options, out of chances out of time, he desperately sought Charlie's gaze; no one else would listen, but maybe James could still reach him, maybe they could still get away, escape, together; but when James locked eyes with the boy he loved, who mattered most to him in the entire world, it was like staring into a cold brick wall, and he knew exactly how this would end.

But, this time, seconds before the herd reached him and seconds before he was torn apart by clawing hands and gnashing jaws, he spotted among them two new unmasked figures, moving on each side of a half-decapitated walker still wearing his old, rotting disguise:

A teenage girl with fire in her eyes, and a little boy with nothing but fury.

He jolted clear awake, and it took a long time before he even dared to close his eyes again. He listened for moans or footsteps as best he could over the pulse rushing in his ears and his heart beating like a captive baby rabbit's, but heard nothing but carefree birdsong and the quiet rustling of branches and leaves.

Trying to push away the memories that came flooding back with the dream, he tried to distract himself by identifying the birds he heard, but he had never been good at that, only knew the most distinctive calls: the ones of doves, or owls, or whip-poor-wills. So he settled for counting them instead; but as if to spite him most fell silent, only the single whip-poor-will he recognized kept going, and going, and going.

Years of training still couldn't keep his thoughts from circling back to AJ, and Clementine.

How he just let her waltz away with him like that, after everything they said, everything they did. AJ, who murdered a woman begging him for mercy, riddled her body with bullets; saying he liked it, and that he'd killed before and would keep killing anyone who got in his way, and James just... let him go, with the girl who made him that way.

Why? Why?? Why was he such a fucking coward? Because that's what it was, wasn't it? Pure cowardice. He had wanted so badly to make Clementine see reason just one last time, that he could help AJ, save AJ, if only she let him, but he knew in his heart then, back there in the cave, that if he had tried one more time to take the boy from her, that both would kill him on the spot without a second thought. And with that James would have accomplished nothing but further hardening AJ's mind, add another tally to his body count, and let Clementine tell him, a five year old, it was okay to kill the people he called friends. And they wouldn't even give James the peace of mind of becoming a walker either, would they? Just smash his head against the wall and be done with it.

And he used to trust her. Why, why?! What was it about her that made him let his guard down, making mistake after mistake for a stranger's sake?

Well, maybe it was because he saw her on the ground with a boot to her neck and a gun to her head, and AJ being yanked around and manhandled like a sack of potatoes, by people who forsook their humanity long ago and now only thought of children as cannon fodder. And he just couldn't stand idly by and let it happen to them too.

But also... also, maybe because she trusted him, first, when she accepted his help in the first place, trusted him to keep her and AJ safe, trusted him to not be just another murderer.

And then, when he asked her, someone so used to killing for her and AJ's survival, to once in her life try and spare the walkers they came across, she did it, she listened to him! He just really wasn't used to that, was he? Used to count himself lucky if encounters with other survivors didn't end with him dodging bullets, but here was someone not only willing to talk to him, care enough to ask his name; but actually consider his point of view, and that had been exhilarating.

Just, being treated like a person again; being heard, being seen.

Trusted, and called a friend.

And with it, given hope even after all these years there were still some good left in people.

And then she went and and used him like a tool. She saw his bleeding heart and seized it, squeezed it dry.

Yes, he helped save her friends, but at what cost?

How many died on that beach, in the gunfight, in the explosion?

How many more lives did he have on his conscience now, because he was so gullible, so foolish to trust she knew what she was doing?

Did the captives even make it off the boat in the first place, or did Clementine get them killed too?

Had it all been for naught?

Just the same senseless, endless cycle of killing, that he, once again, now had a part in, after years of trying to escape it?

But he'd always be a part of it, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he? No matter what he did, no matter how much he tried to run from himself, he would always be a murderer.

---

His eyes were still red and swollen when he finally fell asleep; when he awoke again the sun had already set. Most of the birds had fallen quiet too; only a faraway chain of 'whip-poor-will's still echoed unbroken in the distance. He rubbed the last traces of sleep from his eyes and rolled over on the side, freeing his trapped hand; tense and stiff with pins and needles, so he massaged it, until the prickling sensation slowly gave way to a dull, feverish throb. Still painful, but nowhere near as bad as it was mere hours ago. Sleeping had done some good to ease his mind too, though his brain still felt like someone had wrapped it in gauze, maybe he could finally start putting some distance between him and the embarassment that had been this entire day. His stomach began to grumble again, and this time he was ready to oblige it.

But he had barely crawled out of the dark of the shelter and into the pale moonlight when he heard a branch snap and with it

The muted sound

of slow

shuffling

footsteps.

He lunged at his boots, pulling them on in five seconds flat; swept the ground beside them for where he left his favored knife, found it; grabbed and gripped it in a rock hard vice. He patted his face quickly to confirm that at least he still had his mask on, didn't want to ever let it out of his sight again. Then he closed his eyes, trying to pinpoint where the sound had come from, and his breath hitched when he realized that the steps had stopped. Several breathless seconds passed, his now wide open eyes darting around, looking for movement, but not daring to make any himself. It could be just a lone walker, it probably was, but he couldn't shake the fear that it could just as well be surviving raiders returning, come to exact revenge.

Then, finally, finally, he heard the dragging shamble of feet again, from behind the wind-thrown tree to his left. Out of sight from where he was, but too far away to be an immediate threat. Breathing a momentary sigh of relief, he crouched down to pick up one of the many many rocks he had littered the campsite with, still gripping the knife in his right hand just in case. One thrown rock should be enough to let him eat in peace, then he could herd the walker into the barn, into safety. Still crouching and hugging the shadows, he rounded the toppled root system, only to stop dead in his tracks when he saw the walker.

He was short, much too short. Hunched over, head bent low and heavy, whole body rocking from side to side with each unsteady step forward. His arms, stiff and contorted, clutched tightly against his stomach.

Even forty feet away and cloaked in shadows, James recognized him. The fearful, timid boy he was captured alongside of, and brought onto the ship with, where they both watched AJ blow a dozen holes in a woman's head. Who went on to narrowly outrun an explosion and dozens of frenzied walkers, through a twisting cave system with him and Clementine and AJ, at last escaping with them while James stayed back, thinking he was saving their lives.

But here he was.

Here he was.

How? How did he die? Fuck, what if he was shot? James thought he'd heard distant gunshots early in the morning, just at the break at dawn, the raiders must have hunted them down and – Clementine must have left him to slowly bleed out, to save her and AJ's selfish, cowardly hides and why didn't James go- how could she live with- how could he live with himself?! All this time he'd been so focused on AJ's safety and sanity, it's like he forgot the older boy even existed, even when he was right there in the cave, watching them fight; and now he was gone. Because of Clem. Because of James. And he never even bothered to ask his name.

As stupid as it was, he wanted to speak, needed to speak, anything to break the deafening silence, even knowing full well he wouldn't get an answer.

“What happened to you?” he croaked, voice as weak and pathetic as he felt, hoarser than he expected too; from talking and shouting more in the last couple days than he'd done in a year.

But the boy in front of him didn't seem to react at all, didn't even snarl or moan, just kept slowly, slowly shambling forward.

So he put the knife and rock away, took a few cautious steps forward, hands held out prepared to guard against an unexpected lunge. A sudden gust of wind shook the canopy above, and the beams of moonlight that broke through revealed skin caked and clothes soaked with dark rotten blood; and illuminated the terrible burn scar covering half the boy's head.

He must just have turned too, because his skin hadn't taken on that grey unnatural pallor yet. He still looked healthy, living.

He'd be far paler than that if he had bled to death.

No, whatever killed him did it mere minutes ago. Could have been strangled, which meant his killer was still around, but there had been no sign or sound of them. Or he could have broke his neck trying to climb a tree, running from walkers or just trying to find his way home. It would explain why his head was bent down like that, he was physically unable to keep it upright anymore. But if he really wandered the woods all day before meeting his fate it meant Clementine did leave him behind after all, just so she could get away. She was the reason he was dead.

He needed to show her what she had done.

He needed to bring the boy home.

James was about to close the final gap between them, ready to grab the walker by the nape, ready to lead or push him all the way to the school if he had to; when the boy he was grieving but never knew stopped less than eight feet from him.

And slowly raised his head.

His eyes.

They were dazed and distant, looking through James rather than at him, but they weren't the milky, glossed-over white he expected, but deep, black wells in vivid umber.

They were alive.

He was alive.

#twdg #twdg james #james twdg #jirzettastuff

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