"--What're you so tense about? It's just a house..."
unprompted. / always accepting.
it’s just a house.
the words reach him but not in the way they need to, he’s stuck there at the door peering down the hallway. an entrance that allowed you to see the full length of the house, old framed shutter windows on either side of the back exit. the stairs placed to the left of the doorway and sweeping hallways on either side leading to washroom and kitchen respectively. his stomach churns, his heart thrums in his ears, he says nothing.
it’s just a house.
every attempt at movement is stilled, like trapped in place while his mind races off without him. he remembers it like it was yesterday. he remembers and pretends it isn’t the reason he avoids coming to the house out in the country so often. bile rises in his throat and he chokes something out, words that don’t feel like his own, quiet and trembling as he wrings his hat in his hand. shrinks deeper into his coat, feels so small there at the door of his childhood home. remembers racing upstairs past his mother with glee and dropping his things upon entry, some scattered toys clattering to the ground. remembers being stuck in place, the world shifted after ... after ...
it’s just a house. it’s just a house.
feels like he’s falling, or --- no, moving. drawing back away from the house like a specter merely watching until he realizes he’s done just that. one, two, three steps back and he fumbles on the steps nearly falling and cracking skull upon the wooden porch. easy, detective. this house has already tasted the suffering and gore of one o’neil man in its lifetime, it didn’t need more. doesn’t realize how fast his heart is pounding, how sick he feels, until he turns away to the warm light of day. summer heat brought pollen and dust kicked up, the buzz of life renewed. something that couldn’t be found in this house.
stumbles to the ground to sit upon the steps there, and struggles with his cigarettes. trembling hands as he tries to block out the image that burned forever in his mind. dead eyes, hollow and empty, the sound of the rope whispering steady protest to the weight it held there slack. before cigarette could meet his lips he doubles o’er and spills sick upon the grass there, heat and sweat wracking him. he’s dying, he must be, can’t seem to get a breath in or settle any part of him. shaken to the frame of his being as he presses palms into his eyes and sucks a trembling breath in. no amount of days home could solve what shifted in him after that, his experience now would tell him he’d been there for only a few minuets. if he was smarter then, and maybe if he was faster... --- no no no!
❛ i just -- i need a minute. ❜
guilt and some wretched scent of anguish seeps from him with vigor. he’s practically drenched in it. struggling to garner the courage to turn back around, to stride inside as though it were nothing. until the sound of his sister’s voice comes from the doorway, can’t be bothered to pull himself from the vice grip his mind had upon him as she inquires about bigby first --- clearly missing the sight of her younger brother until a moment later.
❛ hello ... ? can i help --- ‘ duffy? ’ --- ❜
pure shock rips her normally cool demeanor, and the childhood nickname seems to draw the detective from his freefall for a moment as she lurches around to his side. she’d done this before, knows something bigby doesn’t. eldest of the two, was there the day it happened and knew exactly why he refused to return to the house in spite of their mother’s failing health. she couldn’t blame him -- or rather, she shouldn’t ... but she did. they both knew that.
❛ I don't need a taser, ❜ quiet it is spoken, brows furrowed and posture withdrawn. but then she straightens and voice comes with the bite of a youth full of conviction, ideals held in a vice grip. ❛ I don't want taser. ❜
it's at times like this he knows he'd be a terrible father. gruff man heaves a sigh as his hardened countenance softens with his exhale. hands stuffed into his pockets, a nervous habit as he turns to glance over his shoulder. he has to be sure he isn't being watched, he has to be sure he can keep her safe from the other side of the fence.
❛ I know you don't think you do , kid. but you don't know the kinda' people that are out there . worst case scenario , you use it to defend yourself . best case , you never have to use it and I'm a paranoid old man . but just take it anyways , and be safe . please . ❜
final word comes out more pleading than anything else, his dark eyes flickering with worry as exhaustion becomes apparent upon his face. brows create a gentle crease between them, lines around his lips and five-o'clock-shadow everlasting. the scar upon his jaw. the man who had seen too much and wishes with all that was left of his soured heart that he wouldn't look into her eyes and find a mirror. something hollow and tired, wounded. perhaps he was paranoid, but he'd rather be safe than sorry.
“O-oh…” The self-doubt-filled christian allows hands to meet, fingertips pressing together into one another. Fiddling with his hands; he taps both sets of fingers together in idle nervousness as the man of the law beholds him from the dock down below.
The sounds of seagulls mixes with the crash of the blue ocean water beneath the duo. Even tied down and fully anchored, the yacht rocks back and forth. The movement certainly enough to sicken most people, Joseph wasn’t keen enough to notice anymore. He’d grown too used to it, and frankly, he found he preferred it to dry land.
The citizen hadn’t been purposefully seeking trouble. The truth was much more simple than that. Joseph had remained docked for quite sometime, which in an of itself was not the issue, but in fact, the poor man had been squatting within his own yacht, sleeping in his cabin after his dear wife had once again requested the man no longer stay with her in their home.
Joseph peers over the edge of his yacht with a sheepish expression taking over his features. “Well, o-office, I’ve been staying on my boat, because my wife… well…”
“…We’ve been having some problems…”
the detective’s harden expression softens timidly as he listens to the man speak. sharp, dark eyes cut through him like they were crafted for such a task, and yet with a movement of muscle they seem almost ... harmless. though his gaze flickers and glints with hints of suspicion, flashlight is drawn away from the other for the time being. idly, o’neil gazes past him, into the yacht, to check for any signs of concern or other people. seeing nothing of interest, though still sighing as he knows he’ll have to investigate further. it’s with that exhale upon joseph’s elaboration that a more human sort of demeanor comes over him.
❛ m’sorry t’hear that sir, but you know the rules. really can’t be stayin’ here in the mean time... is this your yacht ? anyone else on board with you tonight ? ❜
“Snoopin’.” Bigby responds quite bluntly, hardly bothering to look up to the detective while he answers him. Instead, the lycan chooses to continue looking around O’Neil’s apartment, actively moving furniture and knick-knacks that otherwise shouldn’t be manipulated by a guest.
He remains at it, lifting a small figurine on a decorative cabinet near the living room’s couch. He ducks his nose in closely, not sure if he should be as surprised as he is that he can smell O’Neil’s natural scent on the beautiful piece ceramic that the lycan had been holding. It was easy to tell the detective had recently touched the decoration.
“You just buy this?” He asks, while carefully setting it down.
❛ hey, -- hey ! that’s -- you can’t --- ! ! ! ! ❜
normally, no issue would be taken with the sheriff poking through his things. not many things of value or interest remained in the sad, shoebox apartment belonging to the private eye. save for an assortment of dust bunnies to keep him company, discarded take-out chinese food boxes. oh ! ---- and of course his collection of comics, romance novels, and little figurines. embarrassment floods across his cheeks as he fumbles over his boxes of case files to the lupine in disguise. the little ceramic hummingbird in question was a favorite of his, and a new addition. hence, his worry for the other handling it.
❛ yeah, I ah ... thought the place could use something nice . ❜
"I thought I could smell you. What're ya doin' here?"
❛ yeah, sorry for skulkin around, wanted t’make sure I wasn’t followed, or -- ... anyways, you’n me gotta talk. there’s been somethin’ ... somethin’ odd goin on down at the bullpen bigby, somethin’ bad. the boys don’t can’t make sense of it. but it looks like somethin’ that might involve you and yours. can we talk somewhere more uh --- y’know --- secluded? ❜
it wasn’t that he didn’t trust bigby, quite the contrary, but this was sensitive information and he knew better than discuss it out in the open where someone could hear. no need to rouse panic in the masses. not yet anyways. scratching under his collar he’s certain would not go unnoticed, and neither would cold fingers fumbling for a cigarette. this case wasn’t the only reason he wasn’t finding his own way into the business office.
seems tumblr went and broke my account or smthing because the theme preview is just Not Working on this blog at all (nor on any sideblog I make connected here) and is blocking random people from sending asks, so rip. default tumblr theme until further notice while I try to figure out what’s going on.
An office building. A late night. A bleeding victim.
One of his dirty, bloody hands grasp onto his other arm tightly, the free arm wrapped around his scrawny body in a protective manner. Very visibly shaken, the young boy stands there hunched in on himself; face wet with tears and sticky with blood as he sniffles quietly. His free hand lifts to rub at his eye, effectively smearing more tears, blood and dirt over his cheek. The skin on his wrists was painted red with blood and carved up by sharp, stiff rope fibers, indicating that he had at one point been tied down.
Teary hazel eyes stare at the floor as the boy offers a sharp inhale, holding his breath in his chest for far too long as he tries to distract from his anxiety and the sting of his bleeding wrists. Several seconds pass before the roughed-up boy releases a sob through his exhale. He offers a few sniffles as he wills himself to look up at the closed wooden door that he stood in front of.
DETECTIVE O’NEIL
Large emboldened letters were printed in white on the door’s frosted glass pane. The boy can see the light from a desk lamp shining through the translucent glass on the other side of the door, suggesting that someone was certainly inside, even despite the ungodly hour.
Several more moments pass before the boy gathers enough courage to offer a knock at the detective’s door. Shaky hand forming a fist, he gives one, two, three ginger knocks upon the wooden surface before quickly pulling his arm back and huddling in on himself once more. It was more comfortable like this.
Anxiety burned inside the poor boy. Fears of his hooded attackers returning for him clutter his mind as he waits in near silence, the only audible sounds coming from a nearby ticking wall clock and the sniveling child himself. Tears continue to roll freely down his cheeks as he continues to wait. Fearfully glancing over his shoulder more and more often, expecting those horrible men to grab him and finish the job.
tick tick tick ------ the time seemed to drag on, and in spite of all the noise and chaos that awaited outside the detective’s office, he’d all but gotten used to it. yet even still, there was one noise in particular that seemed to chip away at him throughout the night when things got ‘ quiet. ’ that noise, of course, being the tick tick ticking of the clock, every time tired eyes gazed o’er to behold the time that he’d inevitably wasted going in circles it nipped and nagged at him.
time, mr. o’neil, you’re quickly running out of it.
[ . . . ] maybe even quicker than you realize.
it was a feeling he never could shake, no matter how much he drank or how many packs a day he burned through. yet, just as his tired eyes began to fail him, even as he was about to get lost within his own troubled mind, he was reminded of the other noise that always seemed to stand out from all the background noise. that, of course, being the knock at the door. eyes forward and all at once he’s on high alert, it wasn’t uncommon for those that seek his help to come in the dead of night in hopes of avoiding being tailed, but even so it was important to remember his place on the food chain as well. there were many that sought and plotted to see his downfall, and he would be stupid to ignore such a fact. pistol checked quickly, full up on ammunitions and the light click of a bullet in chamber as he slowly slinks towards the door, exercising full precautions before slowly drawing open the door. suspicions are still raised, but certainly less so, surely no child looking as shaken as he did would be stupid enough to try something.
you got killer in your eyes, boy? i don’t see it.
familiar words that haunt him solemnly into the night, quick is he to slink hidden pistol back into holster as brows knitted together now cock to silently signify piqued interests. voice low, deep, but gentle as he speaks, carefully peering round corner to see if he may find someone who was coaxing the child into making a bad decision, or perhaps chasing after. a quick survey of the familiar hallways would prove fruitless, not a soul or misplaced item could be picked out by the seasoned detective. even so, he continues forth with caution, but still ever compassionate.
still Crave a thread in a universe where puppets and toons are living among humans and o’neil is one of the first toon detectives that No One takes seriously save for his human / toon / puppet detective / partner.
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