'til we're food for the worms ── .✦

we lay here for years or for hours. so long we'd become the flowers. and they'd find us in a week when the weather gets hot, after the insects have made their claim. i'll be home withyou.

[eatabug]

i have never known peace like the damp grass that yields to me. i have never known hunger like these insects that feast on me. we lay here for years or for hours. so long we'd become the flowers.

MUSE PAGE | DEVIL'S ELBOW

[murdcrofcrows]

"well hello richie, it's nice to see you, too." ziggy breathed a chuckle as they shut the door behind them. this wasn't an unusual situation. richie and ziggy had been friends long before he took the big desk job as editor-in-chief ( which they've noticed has been bothering him for a good long time now ) and they're used to listening to him work through whatever it is giving him a panic attack that day. which he returns in the moments ziggy's needed it too. there was many a night they spent freaking out to him about the many anxiety inducing things in their life, good or bad.

a long spindly limb reached for the other coffee cup and ziggy fell back to sit on the comfier chair in the room and watch their friend as he flailed about. sometimes ziggy is concerned that richie is going to work himself into a heart attack the way he gets so passionate about things. which, ziggy will admit, makes a great writer but does nothing for your mental or physical health. if they didn't have beau to unwind with, ground themselves when things go wild, ziggy imagines they'd be as wound up as richie is right now.

"oh hey, how did that go?" they know it's not the point of the story but they were still interested. ziggy had mixed feelings about remington ambrose, if only because they aren't a fan on how badly he hurt their friend and they think he's not good enough for richie. maybe that was just their bias talking but it didn't matter, they would never stand in richie's way on the matter. after all, they hardly know the guy.

moving on since they did listen to everything else he said and they knew remi wasn't the point of the whole conversation. "okay, first of all, you're not losing your edge. you were stuck in a community center with tons of people and there were all sorts of issues going on there." they'd heard about the generator going out, along with all sorts of other random things. "plus matters of the heart and all that." ziggy waved their hand not trying to insinuate the outcome of anything.

"i spent all week on the compound talking to people, worrying about my mom who was missing by the way, just to find out she was on the compound the whole time. so you missed the murder, but you can be first to gather details and actual facts about it." they looked around at the different stacks of folders on his desk. "if you have time, that is."

[eatabug]

shit. right. manners. richie is very swiftly reminded of how blatantly he lacks any, apparently, the moment his friend walks through the door and actually greets him―what you're supposed to do any time you see someone you care about, likely, but especially after a monumental weather disaster. he did get them coffee, though―he usually does on days like these when he's calling them into his office before the workday's even begun just to bitch and banter―and that's got to count for something, right? probably not as much as a simple hello would've, but something.

❝ sorry, i'm―hi. that was rude, wasn't it? a week in a snowstorm and i've lost all regard for social convention. ❞ it's not just after the snowstorm, but it's a convenient enough excuse in this instance. the editor-in-chief walks over to his desk and hesitates behind the chair for a moment, his hand hovering over dark leather. he should sit down. he knows he should. if he doesn't, he'll end up pacing a hole straight through the office floor, and he's got no doubt that ares would cut those repairs right out of his check. ❝ i just―i feel so... ❞ the hand above the chair lifts in a wild, vague gesture toward his head and the general area surrounding it. ❝ ...so all over the place right now. ❞

but that was a part of why he wanted to talk to ziggy, wasn't it? if anyone else could understand his anxieties and frustrations, it was them. but they weren't anywhere close to as tightly wound as richie was. and quite frankly, he couldn't understand how ziggy was as grounded as they were in spite of their own anxieties. he still can't, but he's hoping he can figure it out through observation or osmosis or―or something.

( that's not entirely true, though, is it? richie does know, at least in part. ziggy was never this calm before they met their husband, definitely not when they were with that last dickhead. he heard about what happened at the wedding. )

❝ i don't know, ❞ richie confesses, finally pulling out his chair and dropping into it with a huff. ❝ we talked. he was very― ❞ emotional, richie thinks. remi cried in front of him, for christ's sake. but he doesn't want to say that, even to ziggy. it's not his place. ❝ ―honest, ❞ he finishes instead. ❝ he was very honest. and he's still―god, he's still so stupid, but in this earnest way that just― ❞ he cuts himself off after that, batting a hand as if to physically wave the thought away. he's rambling. ❝ it doesn't matter. i still don't know where we stand, but that doesn't matter either. not right now, anyway. it will, but it's―we're at work right now. i didn't call you in here to lament about my pitiful love life, i swear. ❞

the way he says it, it almost sounds like a reminder to himself.

❝ thank you, by the way, ❞ richie adds, because he's already caught himself being rude once already and ziggy's barely been in his office five minutes. not even. ❝ wait, what do you mean your mom was missing? ❞ he'd been booting up his computer, but his eyes immediately cut to ziggy as they speak. ❝ but you were on the compound, too. how did you not cross paths once the entire time you were both snowed in there? i mean, i know it's big, but i can't imagine they were just letting civilians roam in the middle of a blizzard. ❞

richie doesn't look toward his desk when ziggy does. he knows what's there. he knows how much work awaits him after an entire week out of the office. he's not going to have time for shit. ❝ yeah, ❞ he sighs, leaning back in the chair and letting his gaze drift toward the ceiling. ❝ yeah, if. ❞

[strcinedhecrts]

REMI'S FACE FEELS HOT. not just the kind that comes with the simple bashful blush of childhood -- like its burning. as if in the time since richie wore his ring, his very existence has represented a simple match dangling sheer centimeters over a striking strip. the flame has been lit. and just like steam, his words need somewhere to escape. no matter how much his suffocating pride wishes to fight them. he may be strong, with a body carved from years of protecting not himself but everyone else around him -- but this is one battle he knows that no matter how hard he tries, he just won't win.

but then again, he knows he wants to lose. he's just never been very good at that.

" i mean, i think i'm a prime fuckin' example of what somebody's world looks like when they're stupid enough t'lose you. pretty fuckin' pathetic, if y'ask me. " he continues, somehow feeling far braver than he had when he'd initially opened his fat fucking mouth. perhaps it's far easier since he took his brother's words to heart and stopped writing them off as typical sibling nagging, like the ceaseless tugging at his sleeve for attention in their youth. he can admit it -- there was a certain pang in his chest. despite believing deep in his heart that his brother deserved the happiness bunny gave him -- it's yet another reminder of his own self-sabotage. when he had been the happiest he had ever been, after years of suffering. " prolly vindicatin' deep down, for you. "

are those -- tears behind his eyes? he thought he had conditioned himself a long time ago to be unfamiliar with the feeling. he pushes them back with a sharp exhale, as if by practice. but the admittance to just how isolated his life has become -- it stings just as bad as a stab to his chest.

" yeah, no shit. " he offers a thin-lipped smile, accompanied by quieter laughter to infer to his sarcasm. while remi may be less attuned to social cues -- he makes an effort to be conscious when it comes to those who matter to him. because richie's comfort never stopped mattering to him. " well, around you. y'know me too well for that. "

and perhaps that had been the damning blow. the reality that nobody could possibly know him quite like richie -- making him a soft spot. he lives a very violent life. he has been the very cause of bloodshed, broken bones, even death. just as richie knows him so well ( better than he knows himself -- considering he only seems to be in the business of being completely honest around him ), remi has warned him more than once not to get too close to the sun. chase a story down a hole you can't come back from -- get yourself killed. perhaps remi considers himself to be that very void -- for he is constantly surrounded by danger. it's as if by being with richie, remi feels like he's tempting fate. putting a target on his back.

if anything happened to richie hirsch... no, he can't even think about it. he may not recognize himself now when he wakes up alone and looks at himself in the mirror -- but he certainly wouldn't then.

and then richie's in front of him -- familiar eyes looking up at him with the same concern that he only seemed to find endearing when it came from him. the very same expression that used to cause his heart to leap to his throat -- and it still does now. as much as he initially grimaces at hearing the words afterglow and saftey in the same sentence, he knows he's right. " you're right -- i know y'are. they prolly have enough t'feed everybody in town. and it's literally a fuckin' hospital. " he mutters. he had served their army so faithfully back then -- and where had it left him?

as he feels richie's fingers do their work ( the fact that he's touching him again at all nearly makes him forget how to breathe, fucking hell ) -- his eyes flutter shut for a moment, releasing all the air he can to keep from crying out in pain. the good kind of pain, like when you've been ignoring a tight muscle for so long it's turned into solid rock -- when it desperately needs to release.

when he finally opens his eyes again, he meets the other's gaze with a fleeting, temporary smile. " oh yeah, totally. maybe i shoulda' known, considerin' there's some fuckin' natural disaster goin' on every other month. " i was starting to think i wouldn't get one at all. it's as if the metephorical knife that's already lodged in his side is pushed in deeper with those words, but he knows he deserves them.

" n -- no -- you deserve more apologies from me than one human bein' is possible of givin', till my knees are raw. i mean it. for so long i thought i was just too proud -- like i was protectin' you -- "

there it is. the beginning of the truth.

there's no turning back now. but, being this close to richie again -- reminded of every wrinkle in his face, every lock of hair and the way it fell, he knows he doesn't want to anyway. the only place he wants to move is forward. like he is nothing more than a planet orbiting the universe, and richie is the sun. or maybe remi is the moon, considering how, without question, he would die every night just to let him breathe.

if that's what it came to.

" i have spent my entire life around violence. from protectin' my siblin's from my father -- t'goin' to the army.... to them. and you, richie, have always been the most precious thing in my life. i thought t'myself -- maybe he's better off bein' far away from me, 'n all the shit that i fight off my front stoop every damn day. because god, y'don't even know how bad i want to be the man who gives y'somethin' normal -- stable.... " the tears come again, but this time, they win. the last time he had ever cried, it was probably in front of his brother when he had ended up in the hospital. out of the disbelief that came with waking up without his leg and finding a device in its place, a forever connection to afterglow that he had never asked for. " all i ever wanted was t'have a family with you, for fucks sake. kids, animals, a white picket fence -- the works. 'n maybe that scared the shit outta me for more than one reason. not just because it would quite literally be the end of me if somethin' happened t'you -- but i never felt like that before. 'bout anyone. "

he had always thought he had been better off alone. but then richie had to come along and fuck that all up.

the tears are coming faster now, perhaps intermingling with years of emotions he had trapped in a prison of his own making. and yet, as he continues to speak -- he finds himself unable or even making any effort to stop them.

" i never stopped lovin' you. i never could. no matter how many times i tried t'convince myself it wasn't in both of our best interests. i just never could quite sweat y'out. and i don't want to. "

[eatabug]

it's a strange feeling, to be so entirely lost for words.

it happens to people, surely―some more than others―but not to richard. never to richard. how could richard, who carries a pocket notebook and a pen with him wherever he goes so he's always ready to write down a thought the second it crosses his mind, possibly have nothing to say? but that's the thing. that's not exactly it, is it? he's got plenty to say, plenty he wants to say, but he doesn't know how to say it. he's not sure where he'd even begin. he's been waiting for so long, he's imagined this very same conversation at least a thousand different times over in his head. none of them were like this. of course they weren't. he should know better than to try and predict reality by now.

so richie doesn't say anything. he doesn't even try to, at least not yet.

instead, he listens. and for all that he's used to talking―and oh, is he used to talking!―richard hirsch is a damn good listener. that's always been just another part of the job. you can't get the full story if you're too busy talking over it. he knows that. did he have to learn it the hard way? maybe. but he's been doing his job for years. he is good at it. his hands continue to keep busy, fingertips working into the muscle where it feels most tense. every small sound that escapes remi is more proof that richie's memory doesn't fail him ; he's mapped out every inch of the other man's body countless times over with his hands, committed every inch of him to memory. it feels good to touch him again now, richie would be a liar to try and deny it.

❝ i was hoping you might work up the nerve when the cicadas came back out, ❞ richard muses thoughtfully as he presses into the swollen tissue around remi's knee. it's a half-truth disguised as a joke. he hadn't expected anything then, but he was always just a little bit hopeful, wasn't he? he still is, even now. ❝ suppose we were all busy with that one, huh? ❞

if he thinks the continued apologies are unnecessary, richard doesn't say so. in part, he thinks, because he's already told remi as much once and if he didn't hear it the first time, repeating himself isn't going to make it sink in. it might also be kind of nice to hear, though, even if he doesn't actually need it. he's not glad that remi feels guilty, but it does make his own hurt sting a little less. a salve for his wounds, however temporary.

the imagery, though―that's something else. until his knees are raw? and richie thought he was supposed to be the writer.

for all that he didn't have words when remi started to speak, richie finds himself actively biting his tongue now to keep from interrupting. his hands have stilled now against remi's thigh as he sits back on his own heels. protect him. protect him? he wants to appreciate the sentiment. it's sweet. he cares. but richie also wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him senseless because he's a grown goddamn man and if that's why he left, if that's why he threw everything away, it's a worse excuse than he thought. he doesn't need to be protected. he never asked for that.

but that's always who remi's been, hasn't it? he is a protector. and even if richie knew this―and he did, he saw the way remi was with his siblings, with his friends―he never thought that this would be the consequence. even if he'd been given a million years, he never would have guessed. and as much as richie wants to hold it against him, as much as he wants to be mad at him for it, he knows that he can't. he can't be mad at remi for being who he is, for doing what he thinks is right―even if it's the stupidest fucking thing richie's ever heard.

❝ you were scared, ❞ richie repeats slowly. he shifts onto his knees carefully, one hand still on remi's leg to steady himself. and then, once he's close enough, richie reaches up to brush away the tear tracks tracing his cheeks. ❝ you were scared and you were trying to protect me. you realize those are the two biggest cliches in the book? ❞

in spite of this ridiculous situation, in spite of all the hurt and the frustration, richie can't help but laugh. it's a shaky, watery sort of thing, full of disbelief and exasperation. ❝ you could have talked to me, you know. you could have said anything to me, and i would've convinced you that it was in our best interest. both of ours. ❞ when he catches remi's eye, richie smiles. it's not a grand gesture by any means ( there aren't even teeth ) but it's something. ❝ you know i'm persuasive. ❞

and then richie's hesitating, the words dissolving on his tongue once more before he can catch them. ❛ i never stopped lovin' you. ❜ he doesn't know what to do with that. he knows what he wants to do―if he could, he'd forgive remi and try to forget his lapse in judgment and pick up where they left off. he can't do that, though. neither of them can. but they have to move forward. and god, richie would be a liar if he said he wanted to try without him. ❝ you're an asshole, you know that? this―this whole time, and now you just― ❞ he trips over an accusation he doesn't have. he doesn't know what to say.

❝ so now what? ❞

[gravemist]

He's been frustrated lately. This is unusual for Ellis - he doesn't like dwelling on things, least of all what he cannot control. This weather, for instance, is something he cannot control. The lockdown - more of the same. All he could do was be as present as possible for the people he'd been indoors with, soothe nerves, act as a guiding hand. That becomes rather difficult when bodies start showing up, tension rising and fears tripling. Daily, a single mantra would run through his head: what can I do? What could he do? Not much, reminded daily of what little power he really has anymore, and that is the single most frustrating thing of all.

And the cherry on top: coming out of lockdown to a ruined shop, the roof caved in and melted snow everywhere. Ruined stacks of paper, a multitude of supplies, jobs he's been working on for months - all gone. Hard work done by his employees wasted and nothing to show for it, Ellis worked hard to make the Ink Well what it is today and to say he's devastated over these losses is undercutting it. He hasn't had a good nights sleep in days and he's sure it shows, a subtle five o'clock shadow, hair curling past his ears, his time filled by work and more work. Salvaging what he can and dumping the rest, making piles of what has to be trashed and what could be repaired. He's good on mental notes lately: barter for parts, order new supplies, try to patch the damn roof. He's in the middle of one of these lists when the door opens, cutting him short. He looks up to the younger boy, and on any other day it would be business as usual, check in and try to not so subtly convince him to get the hell away from the EAA, that there are more effective methods to his madness, but not today.

Ellis hadn't reported the damage yet, mostly because the whole purpose of this is to keep a low profile and he most certainly has illegal forgery equipment hidden around here, but it's become clear that the damage is too severe to fix himself. He manages a forced smile in greeting, refuses to let his bad mood affect his interpersonal relationships even if the boy tries to maintain business as usual. His question warrants a slight glance around the store, answered with a "Well," a long inhale followed by a final sigh of defeat, waving a white flag, he needs help. "Yeah, I guess you're the lucky sucker who's gotta report on this." A sympathetic smile, "Sorry, kid. I can report it myself later if you don't want the hassle."

[eatabug]

the question tumbles out on autopilot before maximilian really has the opportunity to take in the sheer amount of damage that's been done to the ink well by the freak snowstorm. the moment his eyes catch up to his mouth, he immediately regrets asking. the print shop has been ravaged. the weight of the snow must've been more than the roof could handle ; it's collapsed entirely in some places, littering the building in bits of wood and sodden insulation. the floor is flooded with melted snow that still drips in steady streams from the gaping holes in the ceiling. everything is wet.

max can't even begin to imagine exactly how much has been destroyed, much less try to begin quantifying it.

❝ what hassle? ❞ it's an honest question for more reasons than one. even if he did decide to leave and let ellis report the damage on his own, all he'd be doing is going back out into the cold to find the next business with storm damage to ask them the exact same questions. and with his luck, that next business owner would probably be an asshole. at least he knows he likes ellis. enough, at least, that he's willing to stick around and help him. and that's the second part of it, isn't it? it's not a hassle because it's ellis. anyone else and he'd probably be bitching already, if not aloud then at very least in his own head. ❝ if either of us should be worried about a hassle right now, it's not me. ❞

max is already pulling out a tablet as he approaches the counter. service is slow ( he expects a few towers must've gone down in the storm, too ) but it's better than lugging around an entire ream of forms and documents, he supposes. ❝ you holding up alright? i mean, circumstantially, anyway. you're not injured? ❞ he uses the excuse of waiting for the application to load to not look toward ellis as he asks. ❝ did you start taking inventory of the damage? ❞

[murdcrofcrows]

at first, banks simply hummed an affirmation to indicate he heard what max was saying to him. despite his original approach, he wasn't trying to overwhelm his new bunkmate. at the end of the day they still needed to live together and banks was the one who just invaded the space while the other man was in the shower. it was a lot to take in for anyone as far as introductions were concerned and banks thought it best if he gave him a moment or two to absorb the new situation the east atlantic army was putting them both through.

"nice to meet you too, merrin." banks answered in a chipper tone, a private chuckle following while he lowered his hand and backed himself up so he could lean against a nearby wall. and he knows he probably shouldn't look but the man has it out there on display. banks made sure to look away once max had disappeared to hang up his towel. "astute observation that, but what gave it away? the friendly greeting? the way i dress maybe?" he glanced down at the army issued pants, boots, and tee-shirt he was currently in. arms moved to cross over his chest and banks narrowed his eyes with curiosity. "it's the accent, innit?"

there was another chuckle that fell from banks that was followed by the spiel he's heard quite a few bunkmates give in his time between military, militias, and otherwise organizations who forced people to room together.

any questions, cawela?

"yeah, how're you going to stand there and tell me i can't eat in the bunk when you're two breaths from introducin' me to that cake at the start?" there was a twinkle in dark eyes that matched the sly smile forming on his lips. it was a challenge in a way, really banks was seeing where the line was and if the other man knew how to laugh or even crack a smile.

[eatabug]

❝ you've got jokes, ❞ max deadpans. ❝ great. ❞

and okay, to be fair, maybe that is on him. maximilian has never been keen to roll in the welcome wagon for strangers. and why would he? they never seem to last long. maybe it's just that he's not squeamish, but he struggles to wrap his mind around why so many others seem unable to stomach the responsibilities of the job. who's to say this cawela won't request a transfer in a few weeks when he gets his first look at the kind of shit devil's elbow has to offer? forgive him for not preparing a warm welcome.

waste of time, as far as max is concerned. and anyway, it seems like his roommate was able to settle in just fine on his own.

❝ what are you even talking about, huh? ❞ it's not unlike him to be on the defensive with strangers, but there's something about this man's sly smile that has the young medic's hackles raised a little quicker than usual. ❝ there's no cake in the bunk, cawela. i don't even like― ❞ he cuts himself off the second the implication of his roommate's words dawns on him, jaw snapping shut with an audible click as he tries to physically will down the heat he can feel climbing his neck. was he looking? it doesn't matter. he's changed in front of countless guys. cawela's not the first, he certainly won't be the last. ❝ oh, very funny. fuck off. ❞

maximilian crosses the room, pulling out the chair at his small desk and dropping into it so he can begin to organize the things that cawela moved. ❝ what are you doing here anyway? didn't realize shit was so dire they were calling in reinforcements from overseas. ❞

[insainted]

For the first few days, Clay had been forced to stay at the safehouse, the trip to her cabin still not safe to make, despite the fact that the blizzard had come and gone. She'd certainly wondered if there was even anything to return to, with it built almost right on the foot of the mountain, most days spent agonising about what to do if that were the case. Most likely Beau or Dante or even Sofia might offer her a place to stay, permanently or temporarily, but there's a reason she lives alone so far from Burnington—by travel, rather than by proximity, certainly. Unless the army stops holding grudges, harbouring a fugitive is still something they could lose everyhing over.

Days, she lasted there. Days, until the safehouse became busier, until the pressure of needing time alone after a week of being cooped up with people without another choice, and it's the feeling that ultimately sent her out into the aftermath of the blizzard to see what's left of her home.

Perhaps she's hit a stroke of luck, because although it is heavily snowed in, to the point where finding it had been a challenge even to her, once she got inside, it didn't seem worse for wear. Dark, certainly, with all the snow covering even the windows, but it's nothing a little heat couldn't fix. What firewood she could dig out—and not frozen to each other—had been immediately throwing into the fireplace, and the next step would've been digging out her subterranean water tank to plough the majority of the snow into, before cutting down a tree and processing it into more firewood until the rest defrosted... when she heard the distinct sound of snow crunching under footfalls.

Not an animal—Clay has lived out here for years now, long enough to know the difference between footsteps, long enough to know what people sound like, long enough to know that people don't come out here. There's very few people, ultimately, that know where to find her if they need to. Her commanders, certainly, but they'd try her phone first, none of them would simply show up. So she'd grabbed her axe and made her way to the forest's edge, watching the figure approach her cabin.

She's already in a mode, prowling, staying low, but without the necessary camouflage against the pristine white of the world currently, it's no wonder when her name echoes against the mountain wall, back to her, dampened by the snow-logged trees overhead. There's a pause in her step, brows furrowing as she eyes the figure as it approaches—the closer, the more recognisable detail, and Clay immediately feels her muscles relax, a deep breath leaving her lungs in a cloudy white huff.

"Maximillian," she hisses as she approaches him, her tone one of reproach, like a mother scolding her misbehaving son—perhaps not too far of from the reality. "What on Earth are you doing all the way here?" Despite the scolding, the moment they come close, Clay wraps her arms around him and presses a kiss to his temple almost out of habit. "Come on, before you freeze on the spot and I have to make you part of my garden scenery."

[eatabug]

fucking hell, but it's a relief to see her―more than the young private thinks he could ever possibly put into words. maximilian has never been the best at articulating his emotions, has he? he can hardly identify them, not until they're threatening to boil over and he can't swallow them back anymore. it's fucking stunted is what it is, and the worst part is, he knows it. but what's he going to do to fix it? see a therapist? get counseling? like hell he's going to talk to anyone on that compound about what he's feeling. he's not an idiot. one slip up, one wrong word―no. it's fine. he doesn't need to talk about his feelings.

he doesn't need to think about them right now either, so he won't. instead, maximilian leans into the embrace, wrapping his arms around her tight. if he waits until she makes a move to pull back to let her go, he does it for her. he just wanted to see her.

❝ testing my new snowshoes, ❞ he quips dryly as his hands come to fall at his sides. ❝ what do you think i'm doing out here? ❞ if it were anyone else, max might've even pointed out exactly how stupid a question he thought it was, but he's always been a little more inclined to watch his tongue and his temper around clay. and no, to her credit, it's not the best idea for him to be out here. the army would string him up by his goddamn toes if they knew he was using their supplies and their fuel to visit her. does he care? not enough to keep him away. ❝ thought maybe you would have tried to hunker down in this shit, didn't know what you had in the way of supplies. ❞ that's why his backpack is loaded down.

❝ fine, take me inside, and then i'll show you all the shit i brought for you, how about that? i don't want to be a lawn ornament. ❞

[murdcrofcrows]

"wh-what?? oh! uh―" milo had not intended on staying, not because he didn't want to, but because he assumed lorenzo was busy and he did not like intruding. leave it to him to get his hopes up and find out lorenzo was just being nice when he was talking to him at the fishery and texting with him during the storm thereafter. but now loren was inviting them in and suddenly they could feel their heart start to beat in their throat and they think it must have dislodged from its cavity and was preventing them from speaking, making them seem even more socially awkward than they already were naturally!

they shifted in place, looking towards the street a moment at the dreaded walk home they would have to do alone and then back to the cute curly haired artist holding his door open. milo swallowed hard. "sure, if i won't be intruding i wouldn't mind seeing your house on the inside." which isn't exactly what he wanted to say but that's what came out anyways. "i mean, sure." they nodded and stepped inside, brushing past loren. their eyes fell on the plastic on the floor and the open paint cans.

"did your house get damage from the storm?" they looked back at loren, waiting for him to take the lead before stepping further into the place. "the last two weeks have felt incredibly longer than two weeks, you're right." milo added once they'd fully absorbed what he'd said at the door. "it was nice to talk to you, though."

[eatabug]

❝ intruding? ❞ the way lorenzo echoes the word back, it sounds like it could be one of the most ridiculous things he's ever heard in his life. the truth? it just might be. even if he'd been itching for a little bit of time alone after spending an entire week in the mayor-governor's mansion with half the staff of hell's gate's lust floor, he wouldn't refuse company right now. not from milo. there's something different about them. it's not hard spending time with them. it's easy. he doesn't have to think. ( milo does that enough for the both of them. ) he shakes his head, immediately moving out of the entrance to make room for milo to come in. ❝ no way. would you, uh―would you think it's dorky of me if i said i've been wanting to invite you over for a while and you saved me the trouble of trying to find the balls to do it? ❞

that's embarrassing. he shouldn't have said that. why did he say that?

❝ what? ❞ lorenzo blinks at the question. ❝ oh, because of the tarp? no, i was actually, uh―see, i got this mural i've been working on. ❞ there's a brief pause, and then the artist corrects himself. ❝ well, that i've been thinking about working on, you know? this trailer's kinda―well, i mean, let's just say i'm surprised this thing didn't take more damage from the storm. but if i paint over all the shitty parts, i can kinda forget about it. ❞ he glances down at the buckets of paint scattered across the plastic-covered floor before looking back toward milo with an almost bashful smile. bashful? him? ❝ i was gonna try to turn this wall into ooo. or, well, parts of it anyway. i'd ask if you want to help―there's probably no one better to help, actually―but i remember what you said about your elbow. maybe... maybe you could help me map out some ideas? ❞

[apocalyptixs]

"I dunno, man, I couldn't see shit on the way here. I haven't been out that way, wasn't sure anyone had checked in there since the storm started." If anyone, maybe the Fishers - though it wasn't uncommon for any of the Jackals to be found there at any given time.

"So of all places you wanted to wait it out you came here," Javier muses out loud as Lorenzo concludes his story, an eyebrow quirking upwards. In most situations Javier himself wouldn't have thought he'd end up trapped in Afterglow headquarters, but it was even stranger that so many of the rest of them had somehow end up there too. Perhaps it wasn't that uncommon for people to blow in and out through this place on a regular day - maybe they normally didn't linger. Normally didn't get stuck.

His head shook a bit, as if to clear the thoughts. It was probably all just coincidence. "Oh yeah - I mean, I'm sure he'll be alright. Found himself on the wrong side of some Afterglow soldiers and they gave him a little something to take the edge off. Or maybe add an edge. Who knows. He'll be alright, just needs to sleep it off."

This place might've been screwing with his head, too. What Sera had said, what Santiago was planning - he could use a little taking the edge off too. "Yeah, alright. Let's go."

[eatabug]

❝ why are you looking at me like that, huh? i never said i was smart. ❞ and he never will, either. lorenzo has plenty of talents, sure―he's hard-working and creative and he even knows his way around a bike by now―but a quick wit has never been one of them. and okay, no, the compound might not have been the best place to get snowed in, but lorenzo's got his reasons. his trailer's in shit shape, and when he was in the middle of trying to figure out where to hunker down, he'd gotten the text from du pont telling him that daddy governor's mansion was vacant. it was somewhere safe to stay, somewhere nice. how could he refuse? ❝ i've been trying to get out of this place since i showed up. told the soldiers at the gate i had somewhere to be, and they still routed me here anyway. ❞

javier's answer about his boss elicits a low whistle as lorenzo shakes his head at the thought of fisher getting tranq'ed. ❝ what's he even doing on the compound anyhow? you're asking about how i got here, i wanna know what government conspiracist number one is up to on the compound. ❞ a hand lifts to tug through his curls and lorenzo shrugs. ❝ whatever, guess it's not my business what he gets up to in his free time. we got better shit to do, yeah? ❞

lorenzo nods toward a hall marked with an exit. ❝ shit's gonna be awful, but the roads aren't bad in here yet. of course they aren't. it was trash trying to get out of the city, but of course all these rich folks have their streets salted and shit. ❞

[folliesofmiceandmen]

"buffet style is better than nothin' at all for now. i don't like it, but it's the easiest thing to do until i can make sure supply is back up to where it needs to be. can't exactly get shipments when the roads are trash in certain directions, and it's not like i got a truck of my own i can go pick up a haul in." damien isn't sure he's owned anything with more than two wheels in a while. maybe a good thing to look into now, with a baby on the way and all that, but then, lore could always get herself a nice little reliable car, and he can figure out how to drive the fuckin' thing if he needs to. a problem for another time. he isn't even sure he'd be able to afford a car right now on top of everything else.

hell, he's still paying off the medical bills from the last major crisis.

"cause you're hungry, or cause you wanna help me scrape and deep clean the grill and the hood back there?" the sarcasm dripping from his tone is evident. he does know why lorenzo is here, but he also has absolutely no intention of giving in to the petty taunt, teasing as it might be. "and if you wanna offer an 'i told ya so', i'm gonna put a mop in your hand and shove you in the bathroom back there to start cleanin'. eat your damn chicken and move on from the bear."

[eatabug]

❝ whoa, whoa, hey―you don't gotta go getting all defensive here, big man, ❞ lorenzo teases, dropping his plate on the table so he can lift both hands in a playfully exaggerated show of self-defense. he knows he's poking a bear here so he treads carefully ( the last thing he needs is word getting back to scarlett or rio that he mouthed off to a superior, and he doesn't think damien is a narc but he also doesn't know what the man would do if he's in a foul enough mood ) but lorenzo has never been one to bite his tongue entirely. ❝ or did you miss the part where i said it's cool that you're doing this shit? learn to take a compliment, dude. ❞

the younger jackal drops into a chair and begins digging into the chicken sans utensils, popping a piece of meat into his mouth with his fingers before fixing damien with an exasperated stare. ❝ you're kidding, right? come on. don't you think i earned this? i mean, that means i rode next to a― ❞ lorenzo cuts himself off before he can mention the bear again. he's not trying to push his luck and get put on bathroom duty. he doesn't even fucking work here, he's just hungry. starving artist or whatever, he knows damien will feed him. ❝ fine. whatever. i won't say it. but if you're not gonna let me talk about that, you could at least tell me who pissed in your cornflakes this morning. seriously man, you good? ❞

[murdcrofcrows]

it seems to them that the storm was both a blessing and a curse. a blessing because not only did river make it out on the other side alive, they were blessed to know all their favorite people had survived as well. to add to that, the mothman ranch was buried in the snow and now the children have scattered, which should worry river but it's only been a source of overwhelming joy because it means indika gets to stay with them.

more chances to pull him back from the grip that awful cult has on him.

besides fall head over heels in love with him which had already happened, by the goddess on high it never takes long for river to fall in love with someone. but, they were in love with him already, weren't they? this was an old love, spanning centuries and existences, an unshaken infatuation and obsession and utter adoration. they were tethered cosmically.

river was still trying to respect his boundaries, however, and they knew they wouldn't be able to rush things where the children of mothman were concerned. that cult made him feel special in a way that river has yet to compete with, though it's not stopping them from trying everything they know. and since he was currently hurt, an injury he sustained trying to find them might they add, river was trying out the role of nurse along with caring best friend who desperately wants more.

so, so, much more.

the moving around, staying busy though, that helped. making lemon balm and rose hip tea with valerian root to help him stay calm and relaxed. now they were making sun butter oatmeal cookies with raisins because it was one of the few things they know how to make and they needed to stay busy to keep themselves from sitting around staring at indika the whole time.

"do you think that would be such a terrible thing? i mean, the dread father is meant to warn of dangers coming— maybe this will mean no more disasters?" it was hard to remember any pieces of the lore after the many years of heavy substance abuse separating them from when they last read or listened to any of the cult's rhetoric. river looked up to meet his gaze while putting, only slightly burnt, cookies onto a plate and bringing them in.

"what's mine is yours, baby, you know that right?" they brought the cookies in and set them down on the low table in the middle of the cushions and other random furniture. river leaned down to place a kiss on the crown of his head before falling down to lay in a cushion beside him. "i'd go catch some stars from the sky—" if only to show him the cosmic light he's missing wrapped up in the cult's darkness. "if you wanted me to. but you're right there is a level of freedom of having nothing and nowhere."

river watched indika with admiration, watching his light pulse off him and blend with his aura to fill the room in a faint hue the further it traveled, quite the aesthetic if you asked them. "it gets old though, believe me. especially when it's this cold outside." they looked over at him from the cushion they've flopped over on like a cat. "want a cookie?"

[eatabug]

it makes sense in a way, indika supposes, what river is saying to him. he'd not actually considered it through that lens before. the dread father was meant to be a harbinger of impending disaster, a warning for the loss and suffering that looms ever-present on the horizon. if he had no dark omens to bear to them, would he even have a purpose within devil's elbow? and then would it even matter if the eclipse disbanded?

❝ but the listener didn't say the dread father left, only that they haven't spoken. it's the night mother that's missing. and what if he's only denying the listener as a punishment for her disappearance? not that i suspect he had anything to do with it, only that he's next in line for reprimand. hierarchies are such complicated things. ❞

there's a pause, and then his eyes widen as they turn to river. ❝ if it isn't that there are no warnings but simply that the dread father no longer thinks us deserving of them, then we're as good as blind, aren't we? blind and lost, abandoned and displaced at large. not moths but sheep, separately and ignorantly awaiting the next slaughter. ❞

the furrow betwen indika's brows softens at river's words and wide eyes drift shut at the kiss pressed to his crown, a pulse of color curling from the nape of his neck down toward his fingertips. ❝ i'd never want to impose on you, ❞ he mumbles against the rim of his tea cup, soft and honest. ❝ you do so much for me. ❞

the moment they're settled in a cushion opposite him, indika abandons the tea cup so he can reach out and tangle his fingers in river's instead. ❝ i think sometimes that maybe i'd drift away without a tether. i always thought the dread father was that tether, but now i'm not so sure. ❞ a smile twitches at the corners of his lips and he nods, twisting so his free hand can reach toward the plate. ❝ do you think, ❞ indika asks around a bite of the cookie as he settles back into the cushion, his hand still curled around river's, ❝ that souls can be drawn to other souls? a moth to a flame? ❞

[insainted]

Devan's head is reeling, not because the injury is so severe—a fracture is always severe, relatively, of course—but because he can't tell if this guy is delirious, suffering from some sort of mental break, or if this is just his baseline. In the past months since discovering he had a twin in the first place, he's been slowly getting to know River and working on his relationship with them. He hasn't gotten even close to getting to the point where he'd extended his efforts to those closest to them, even though he had heard plenty of things about Indika and Briar both.

He understands that Indika is involved in that cult up north, but he's never looked into their beliefs or what really makes them tick, as that's simply not part of his job, and he never thought he'd be in situations where he'd directly interact with them before River, so the ramblings coming out of Indika sound beyond foreign to him, and he has no real idea how to reply to him, what to tell him to get him to calm the fuck down. Tully would argue he's not exactly good with people anyway, so the chances of setting Indika off more if he engages in it are too high to chance right this moment.

"I'm not a doctor," Devan argues at the question of the severity of the injury, teeth gritted as he utters the sentence, not due to any sort of emotion, but due to the effort of carrying the man down hallways, making sure that Indika doesn't put any additional weight on the leg than he already has. "I'm a soldier, I've seen enough injuries out in the field to know when shit needs medical attention, that's the extent of it."

The thing is, does he go to his squad's combat medics, or head directly to the emergency room for this? They know for a fact that Max and Banks are both on stand-by, just as the rest of them are, but without knowing the exact extent of the injury and how much more Indika managed to exacerbate it by continuing to walk on it, they just don't know if this is something the two medics are capable of fixing on short notice. If he does need surgery of sorts, then the better bet is the emergency room.

But on that hand, he doesn't know just how busy the emergency room is due to the on-going crisis.

There's a deep frown that etches itself in between Devan's eyebrows, as he stops at a T-junction of hallways, a route underground that only Afterglow staff knows about, emergency hallways in case it's not safe to cross the compound in open air. It works in their favour in the current situation, and perhaps this was one of the situations the tunnel system had been created for in the first place.

But he has to make a decision now. Running down a quick list of pros and cons for each option, Devan pulls Indika down the left hall towards the hospital instead. Less to explain to his commander this way, anyway—he's just helping an injured citizen, as far as the hospital would know, right?

"Listen, man, I'm gonna need you to steel your mind, alright? You're already getting warmer, the cold's gonna get out of that limb, and you're really gonna feel it, and it's gonna hurt like a motherfucker once the adrenaline flushes out of your body." It's all words spoken from experience, both first hand and second hand. "I need you to stay calm, okay? I'm not gonna leave you unless you want or need me to, I'll stay with you the whole way, but I need you to remain calm or you're gonna make it harder for us to help you. Alright?"

[eatabug]

indika hasn't the slightest clue where they're going. if the thought crosses his mind at any point to ask, his head's too cloudy to discern it from any of the other dozens of thoughts swirling and melting together like fragments of ice. a doctor. not-river is taking him to a doctor, isn't he? because he's a not-doctor, too. he's not a lot of things. entirely wrong for the situation. indika doesn't tell him as much. it isn't a very kind thing to say to the man helping him.

beggars can't be choosers.

but soldiers receive first aid training, don't they? indika may not know much beyond the world of the children, but he knows this. at least, he thinks he does. and if a soldier can't assess the state of it, that means it's bad. an attempt to glance downward in the hopes of catching a glimpse are both useless ( his pants leg has been pulled back down over the injury, he can't see anything ) and dangerous, nearly causing indika to stumble over his own feet.

he catches himself on devan, brow furrowed in confusion as he tries to both right himself and process devan's direction simultaneously. ❝ that is inherently nonsensical. minds are organic, living things. steel is not. it doesn't belong in the body. ❞ something like disappointment flickers in his gaze before indika looks forward again. ❝ river would know that. ❞

even so, he finds his chin dipping down in a nod as the solider speaks. calm. he can be calm. it hardly even hurts yet unless he―oh, but that's not true anymore, is it? it's as if his pulse has been rerouted toward his leg ; he can feel every beat of his heart like it's radiating straight from his ankle. ❝ don't leave, ❞ he says quickly, almost pleading. this may not be river, but he's someone. he's not a stranger. this isn't a place to be alone. ❝ i'll stay calm. i will, i swear. but you can't― ❞ light pulses erratically at his fingertips, the only luminescent skin exposed. ❝ you can't leave. promise? ❞

[folliesofmiceandmen]

where: a clever place with: @eatabug (indika)

be careful, you don't know your own strength is something that dutch often hears, but somehow also often forgets, his mind going completely blank on the information like he's never heard it before. his prone to excitability, his way of allowing himself to get a bit worked up, it tends to override the warning he's heard a hundred times before, and before he can stop himself, he's spotted friend shaped person and immediately run at them and tossed both arms around them in a hug that is probably too tight and too punishing to be normal for all of three seconds before he thinks for a second and loosens up his grip immediately.

"hi! sorry, hi. i didn't mean to squeeze that hard that was crazy. but hi! i know i saw you in the bunker but after we came out i heard about your ranch thing being all messed up and stuff and i was worried so i wanted to see if you were okay? are you okay? do you have a place to stay? because i have room, if you need somewhere to sleep. i've never had a roommate before but i think it'd be fun, if you need it."

[eatabug]

in the time since the thaw granted him freedom from the concrete cage of afterglow compound, indika has not strayed far from the broom closet and remedy roots ; in part because he's still healing from the injury he'd sustained in his desperate attempt to heed a premonition from the dread father and find river, but even if he hadn't hurt himself, it isn't as if the displaced child of the mothman has anywhere else to go. the ranch, the only real home indika has ever known, was destroyed in the storm. all of his possessions are buried under wreckage covered by snow drifts and frozen beneath a thick layer of ice, completely inaccessible. but river's graciously opened their home and their bed to him, and he spends his hours exploring their shop and prodding their customers with curious questions.

his eyes light up at the familiar face as it comes through the door and indika just barely has the foresight to clutch his crutches tightly to keep them from clattering to the floor when he's suddenly pulled into an embrace. ❝ dutch taylor! ❞ comes the bright greeting, muffled into the larger man's shoulder as he precariously lifts his own arms to return the hug. ❝ it's okay, you're okay, ❞ he insists when dutch finally releases him, rolling his shoulders and testing the soreness that lingers. he doesn't mind it. ❝ i'm okay, too. i was less okay when i decided to leave the bunker, but that's the wonderful thing about bones, isn't it? the way they just... re-fuse. well, eventually. ❞ he'll have to wear the boot for several weeks still and he's not allowed to lean on it at all yet, but he still has a foot! that's a silver lining, isn't it? miracles of medicine.

❝ that's very generous of you. so many of my friends are generous! i'm staying here, actually. well, no, above here, there are stairs behind that door just there. where are you staying? you have a new home now? ❞

[murdcrofcrows]

who: @eatabug ( darach ) where: finn's home

it didn't take long for the rumor mill to find it's way to finn that the shamrocks were supposedly responsible for the death of jackal. in fact, he'd found out before much of the general public. he'd heard while he was still on the compound and then again from feary the moment he was back in town. feary had some falling out with darach, as well, though finn didn't pay close attention to what that was about. o'briens had a flare for the dramatics, minus deidre though one could argue even she has her own 'look at me' moments.

then there was finn who fancied himself a god of a man, or devil in his own words.

it wasn't important, the important part is he needed to talk to his younger brother to find out what happened at the community center and as an added bonus, discuss a new opening they needed filled and give him a chance to maybe redeem himself, finally. the truth is, finn knows they've needed to bulk up their numbers for some time just between the heated dealings with afterglow and the bug assassin cult. but those were preparations, if the jackals decided to get revenge they might have a war to win as soon as next week.

"christ ye take long enough, i told roz to go grab ye hours ago." the main reason he did these things in his house ( with trusted people only, of course, he doesn't want people coming to his house ). "there can't be that many high rollers a few days after the storm of the feckin' century." finn kept grumbling as he got up, wearing only a loose silk robe and his underwear, to grab the aged irish whiskey in the decanter and two glasses. "i want ye to sit down and tell me what happened in the bunker and the community center. spare the dramatics where ye can, yeah?"

[eatabug]

❝ don't get your panties in a twist when they're all you're feckin' wearing, you shameless twat. ❞ there's no bite to his words even as darach rolls his eyes at his oldest brother's complaint―he knows better than that. and, to his credit, if there's anywhere that a man can stride around in next to nothing and not feel a lick of shame for it, it's his own home. he'd say finn could have at least put on pants at any point in all that time he spent waiting on him, but he knows better than that, too. finn wouldn't bother, not if he didn't have to. and if darach did mention it, finn would probably just tell him to stop looking at his dick. nobody wins. he bites his tongue. ❝ anyway, don't blame me. or the feckin' tables, either. feary dearest wanted to have a little sit down with me. i'm sure you already know, he said he spoke to you. if that's the case, you should also know it won't happen again. ❞

the ❛ because our brother's a childish feckin' bastard ❜ goes unsaid. darach is pretty sure it's implied.

❝ dramatic? me? ❞ the younger o'brien scoffs as he drops into an armchair. ❝ wouldn't dream to waste your time with it. the entire feckin' story's pretty cut and dry anyhow. kiran and i were in the bunker. the man they blame for the death of their niece and their sister was also in the bunker, all cozied up to the mayor-governor. there was a group heading to the community center and i made the strategic decision to remove us from the situation before a bloodbath ensued. as we've already established, i didn't tell feary. was that wrong of me? maybe. but you and i both know that he wouldn't have let us leave. he wouldn't have let me leave. and then we'd have a bigger problem on our hands than one dead jackal, hm? ❞

spotting the glasses in his brother's hand, darach reaches out expectantly. he could use a drink. unlike the pint he left untouched on the table where he and feary had spoken, the whiskey that finn is wielding is a little more his speed. ❝ don't know what happened with him either, for what it's worth, but i think you already know it wasn't us. if you haven't come to that conclusion yet, i'll remind you we were too busy thawing after a miles-long foray through a feckin' blizzard. ❞

[insainted]

DARACH O'BRIEN ⸻ HELL'S GATE  . . .  WITH LEN  ( @eatabug )

Whether the temperature has actually let up or it's simply because there's no blizzard pounding at every surface outside, Feary doesn't know, but it feels warmer, and that's all that really matters. The whole ordeal of the past week and a half has left his patience and tolerance for people thin, having worked at full tilt while in the bunker to keep everyone focused on the goal of surviving. He's not been at the club the past two days, a place he can otherwise be found at just about all hours of the day—and night—both for his own sanity and so he won't simply shoot employee and customer alike on sight.

But it's left him time to think, at home, process what happened and steps going forward. And regardless of the fact that in those two days, he tried to shift his mind away from one particular line of thinking, his mind keeps wandering back when he's not paying enough attention. He knows he has to do something about it.

It's the reason he ends up sitting down next to his younger brother with two pints, pushing one of them in front of him as a silent offer. He doesn't look at Darach, eyes directed out at the crowd of people on Gluttony, going around their business as though the region hadn't just suffered the worst snow storm of recent history. Perhaps the people of Devil's Elbow are more resilient than he gives them credit.

For a long moment, he doesn't say anything, taking sips of his pint, sat back in as relaxed a manner as someone like Feary can be in the public eye. Eventually his head turns slowly, looking his brother over, letting out a slow sigh. "I love ye," Feary says, no sentiment about it, just a statement of fact. Something he hadn't said in years, not since they were decades younger. "I'd do anythin' for ye. Burn the world for ye, woulda killed every one a those Texan motherfuckers if they'd laid a hand on ye, if need be."

Sitting up, Feary's hand finds the glass containing the beer again, taking another drink. Words escape him, running through his mind at breakneck speed. You hurt me. I counted on you. I'm disappointed in you. All useless sentiment in the end, Feary knows. Darach wouldn't care, he's made that very clear. "If I ever fucked wi' ye like Patrick, I'm sorry." Feary shrugs, looking out ahead to the crowd again. "I didn't give ye shite 'cause I thought ye ain't shite. That's a feckin' moron like Daithí."

He goes quite for a long moment, eyes fixed on a general point, no longer scanning over the crowd—always looking for the unseen threats. "Talked t' Finn, but I wanted t' let ye know too. This is the last conversation you'n I are ever gonna have again." The words are spoken void of anger, of accusation, just flat, almost tired; thirty-eight years of fighting to survive catching up with him, condensed into a sentence that takes a chunk out of him in a way most people don't know there's chunks to take.

Downing the last mouthful of the pint, Feary turns his head to look at Darach again, patting his shoulder. "We're done, yeah? You take care." With a squeeze to his shoulder, Feary gets up, taking the glass with him.

[eatabug]

darach should have expected the dramatics.

and, to be fair, he did―at least to an extent. when he'd heard that his older brother wished to speak to him, there was not a single doubt in darach's mind what feary wanted to discuss. he knew it was coming. after all, he'd chosen to leave that stupid fucking bunker, hadn't he? but in the moment, preventing a very impassioned ( and therefore likely very gruesome ) double homicide in the middle of a subterranean sardine can of witnesses seemed the lesser of two evils.

and regardless of the result of this conversation, he's still convinced of as much. he did the right thing by leaving, and he'll be damned if anyone tries to tell him otherwise. he couldn't have told feary he was going. the bastard never would've let him leave, not with all the bug children teeming through the halls with afterglow's finest. but darach has more problems than just what his older brother chooses to define as loyalty. he wouldn't change it.

❝ you dramatic feckin' bastard, ❞ darach laments, rolling his shoulder out of feary's grasp as he turns away from his untouched pint. ❝ you'll do anything but listen. the last conversation we'll ever have, is it? here i thought you were going to punish me. ❞

if feary intends to leave, darach doesn't say anything to stop him, but he does keep talking. ❝ i'd love to hear what finn thought of the silent treatment idea. give your little tantrum his blessing, did he? well, good. ❞ the youngest o'brien brother slides down from his stool and fixes feary with a stare. ❝ i'm sure you'll find a lot more peace when you're not worried about my every feckin' move. it has to be exhausting picking it all apart trying to find another reason to take personal offense. ❞

❝ yeah, ❞ he adds, almost an afterthought. the grin that follows is brief but entirely unnecessary. he doesn't have to do it. he does anyway. ❝ yeah, i'm done now. good chat. ❞

[strcinedhecrts]

HOW COULD ALEX HAVE possibly not stopped to think -- considering their conditions, how could they get warm water? shit. her mind starts spinning like a top before pausing as he speaks. fuck. the last thing she wants to do is do ( or say ) something reckless. and yet, she simply won't let anything happen to him. " listen to me, alright? i'm not gonna let anything happen to you, or your arm. okay? " as much as her face had given her away, the words she speak are said with clear and impassioned conviction. it's then when it hits her -- there are other ways to warm water, without power. " a stove. we need a stove. " alex says quickly. " it's best not to compress the skin with the wet sleeve of your shirt, but if we don't have a stove -- body heat is a start. "

fuck, maybe alex should be more aware of her surroundings, or at least anything off of the compound. she does get out some, but has never been this far out into town. " it's just best to get a heat source as soon as possible. think of it like your skin is literal ice cube. " she grabs a nearby dry blanket, putting it over his shoulders. something to amplify his body heat. " she's gotta have a hot plate somewhere.... " eyes soon fall on one of her volunteers before relaying the message. she needs a hot plate, something that could warm a pot of water. fast. " that's quite alright, dairy. i understand. here, take this. " she would say it's a pleasure, but given their current circumstances, as he so eloquently stated -- fuck that. handing him a glass of water and some pain medication, she opts for a hint of distraction. " tell me how you guys got here... i saw you come in the crowd. where were you all? "

[eatabug]

dairy wants to believe her. matter of fact, he's not sure there's anything he'd like to believe more in this very moment than her promise that she's going to let anything happen to him or his―wait, arm? who said anything about his arm? he thought it was just his hand that was fucked―but there's a small problem. it's not that small, actually. it's a pretty fucking big problem. if they were in a hospital, maybe, he'd be more inclined to take her word for it. hell, if the community center even had power, he'd have a little more faith. but they don't, and dairy's pretty sure his fingers are frozen solid.

❝ body heat? what am i supposed to do, shove it under my shirt or something? ❞ just the thought makes his skin crawl. it's already so fucking cold in here. the blanket does help, though, and dairy mutters a gratitude as he tugs it a little tighter around his torso with his good hand. ❝ no offense, alex, but your bedside manner could use a little fuckin' work. think of my skin as an ice cube? yeah, no problem. ❞ he's not trying to be an asshole, but this shit's really starting to sting and he's pretty sure they still don't have a solution. the pain meds are an easy decision and he tosses them back quick before taking the glass from her.

❝ we were in some fucking underground bunker shit 'bout halfway between here and the compound. resources were shit, so a couple of folks got it in their head to come up this way. not a damn thing making it on the roads right now, though, so we all came on foot. can't say i recommend it, either. fucking avalanche almost took everyone out and somehow, my goddamn glove was the only casualty. ❞

[folliesofmiceandmen]

"alright mr. smooth talker. maybe lets get you warmed up a little before you go tossin' all those smooth lines that you love so much." she won't admit it, but even right now, while diana is annoyed with him, upset that he went and put himself in such monumental and stupid danger, he's smooth and it's definitely working on her just a little. it's why she hides her face against his chest so quickly, because it hides that little grin that's threatening to take over and completely break the annoyance all together.

she does, however, manage to smooth out her expression in time for him to pull back and look at her. an eyebrow lifts, and she even gives a signature eye roll before she waves off his little jab. "self respect, but i'm over here fretting about you when you haven't even given me a proper title yet. what does that actually say abo--" but her own quip is cut off when he suddenly jerks his hand away, and her eyes widen a little while she blinks and tries to focus on what seems to have suddenly gone so wrong.

it takes a moment, and then it clicks, and her own eyes widen.

"dairy." she reaches out like she's going to snatch his hand, but stops herself before delicately rerouting her path and carefully taking his wrist instead. "what the fuck are you standing here for, march your ass over to someone and get that looked at."

[eatabug]

she's right. he knows she's right. all this time they've been dancing around each other―around the idea of whatever this is between them becoming something real―and he still hasn't found the nerve to put a name to it. ( to his credit, the last time he tried to broach the subject, he's not entirely sure she believed him. and no, before you ask, he was most certainly not bothered by her doubt in such a rare moment of sincerity and vulnerability. it's fine. she didn't know. he doesn't care. ) and dairy wants to tell her that she's right. hell, he'd put a proper title on it right here and now. he fucking missed her. but he doesn't. he can't.

he's too busy staring at his fucking hand.

the farmhand is vaguely aware of what she's saying to him, but it takes a moment for his brain to catch up. when he tries to flex his fingers, they don't move. he can't feel them. ( why is he afraid that's better? this looks like it should hurt. ) he looks up toward diana the moment her hand curls around his wrist and there's something unfamiliar in his gaze: a flicker of fear. he's fucked up before, but this looks different. this looks bad.

❝ that's―fuck, di, ❞ his voice wavers slightly on the swear and he clears his throat roughly, an attempt to keep it from happening again. ❝ to who? what is anybody going to do? there isn't even power here right now and―shit, can they even fix this? that's not a normal color. that's not―fuck. ❞

[strcinedhecrts]

THE FACT THAT HE still hasn't heard from the second eldest ambrose is frankly, eating him alive. it does bring him some amount of comfort being able to lay eyes on xander just across the way -- and that he's sat with the knowledge that tess is indoors. " heard some whispers that some'a the big shots are in there too. been in touch with saraya. she says hi by the way. " he's sure jeremiah could put the pieces together, pick up what he was putting down. in the long run, remi's confident that milo made the right call. between the whispers of not enough food and the personalities he's come to learn are in there -- he was bound to get himself into some kind of shit. " your brother, he's smart. smarter than most folks i know. i don't think he would'a tread down the hill in allat, unless he had some kind'a sound reason. " frankly, considering the facts that have slowly but surely come to light -- he probably would have done the exact same thing.

remi nods, face contorting in a tired smirk. he really is happy for his brother, and he hopes he can be for bunny everything he couldn't find it within himself to be for richie. at least, back then. " yeah, i was pretty surprised myself. he told me since we've been in here. happy for 'im. " he nods, face growing softer as he looks on at bunny and his brother. " they seem good for each other. as long as my brother's happy and he fuckin' stays that way, that's all i care about. " the second anything went wrong, much like a guard dog, remington would always be more than happy to step in. his thoughtful gaze seems to fade just as quickly as it came, replaced by a teasing nudge. " oh yeah? damn, guess we'll be forever thinkin' 'bout what could'a been. "

as if he hadn't been doing the same when it came to his ex-fiancé all on his own.

another nudge soon follows the previous, his face getting even redder than before. god fucking damn it, he was usually too good at swallowing his own emotions. " dude, shut up. " no matter their age, it seemed that the pair of them could never quite evade the behavior of teenage boys. " why does it feel like you 'n my brother are in kahoots or whatever? he was askin' me 'bout richie earlier too. " of course he knows why -- but what he has yet to reveal is that they've already offered each other something akin to closure. and yet, it still felt like there were so many words that had been left unsaid.

[eatabug]

remi doesn't have to be explicit with his words for miah to know what he means. in fact, it's probably better he doesn't―they might be behind the privacy of a closed door, but jeremiah's not foolish enough to believe that means any conversation is safe. there are a whole lot of people taking shelter in the community center, and that means a whole lot of wandering ears that could be lingering just out of sight. the people he trusts here make a very short list ( longer now, he thinks, that milo and rio are here, but still short ) and the jackals' sergeant-at-arms has been mindful of his mouth from the moment he showed up. he's been listening too, though. ❝ you're actually gettin' messages right now? i still don't got service for shit. fuck man, tell her i said hi. ❞

a chuckle tumbles out of jeremiah before he can stop it when remi remarks that his sibling and the funeral director are good for each other. that's one way to put it. ❝ you think? ❞ he shakes his head, shoulders lifting in a shrug. ❝ i mean, they both got a lot in common, that's for sure. cheerful and weird. ❞ he means it with love, of course―at least when it comes to xander. the kid's practically family. bunny's a nice enough guy, but miah will keep him at arm's length.

a brow lifts in remi's directions. ❝ you got a whole lotta nerve talkin' about coulda-beens, ❞ jeremiah grins, a teasing glint in his own gaze as he reaches out to give his best friend a light shove when he nudges him. ❝ kahoots, huh? that's what you think's happenin' right now? me and xan're out here schemin' on your love life? ❞ miah snorts. ❝ maybe we both just know you well enough to know that you're a grade-a dumbass with a golden opportunity here, and we're tryin' to figure out if you're gonna go and do somethin' about it or keep sittin' here with your thumb up your ass. ❞

another grin, and he's already moving to dodge the swing he knows is gonna come. ❝ independently. i didn't actually ask 'em 'bout shit, but i'm glad to know we're on the same page.❞