Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, No specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing) (Hobie is mentioned taller than her), CW suggestive, CW food mentions, TW abuse mention, CW drinking, CW violence mention. Wild west AU, Cowboy AU.
A/N: I wrote my late dog in this to remember her by, please be nice to the dog ❤️
Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist
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CHAPTER 8 >>> CHAPTER 9
The journey to Hobie's farm was excruciating, yet quiet and peaceful. If not for both yours and Hobie's still healing injuries it would've been a more pleasant ride. Surprisingly enough, there wasn't anyone who wanted to ambush you, and no one to point a gun at; no one to hurt you and Hobie.
The entire time you were afraid, afraid that something would happen the least you expected it. You were waiting for disaster to hit, you've never been at peace on the road, so you were high strung, hands gripping tightly around the reins while you kept your gun fully loaded and ready on your back. Luckily, nothing noteworthy happened during that one whole month of traveling west and away from the south.
Hobie clung to you like sap on wood, and you did too. You both never spoke of what happened that day, it was horrible, even now hallucinations still linger in the back of your head. Sometimes you see her staring at you on the side of the road, sometimes you smell burnt coffee out of nowhere. Hobie understood what they put you through while he lay asleep dreaming of you. He did everything he could to help you return to reality with every grasp of your hand, and with every kiss on your temple— effectively shaking you awake. You take care of him too, changing his bandages in camp, wincing with him whilst you clean his wounds.
It was just you and him, and you've got everything to lose if they ever find you.
You both were careful on the road, always traveling at night under the stars. Lighting small fires that are enough to keep you warm. You've even started to hide your face under a bandana. If it was absolutely needed to go into town, you and Hobie never stayed too long to make an impression. To everyone else, he was Larry Smith and you were his wife. To him, you were his wife in everything but on paper. To you, he was everything. You suppose it was all the same.
The horses are well kept despite the long rides, they slept well, ate even better than you and Hobie. You've noticed Cherry has become friendlier towards Bucky, and Bucky seemed to like the added attention.
Your back aches from the long ride, dawn has just begun to break. The breeze hums in your ears as you and Hobie finally make it to his farm. A piece of land in a valley and in between monstrous mountains that rise up into the clouds; and what seems to be thousands of miles of nothingness. There's nothing but land everywhere you look, the town you passed through hours ago is nothing but a dot in the far distance.
You're situated in the middle of nowhere.
“It's not much, but it's home.” Hobie stands before you, shoulders relaxed, eyes glancing towards you as if he's waiting for approval.
The farmhouse isn't as grand as your old home, it doesn't have the gilded awnings or marble pillars that seem to rise up towards the heavens. The house is made out of wood, two stories high with a simple porch that wraps around the entire structure. Its white paint is chipping, doors weathered by the elements and time. Empty flower pots sit nearby, just waiting to be used once again. Further away, a barn sits near a small pond. The structure’s red paint faded into a murky brown with dead vines covering its side. A windmill stands next to it, the blades squeak in the wind, wood creaking whenever a harsh breeze blows.
The picket fences around the property lay broken with its old chalky paint cracking and melting away. The land surrounding it doesn't look any better, it's barren and dry save for the tall brown grass growing everywhere. There are also stumps left behind by cut trees, a couple have survived long enough to grow as tall as the barn and they both sit behind the farmhouse a few paces away. It lacks any greenery you'd expect for a farm. With its dry soil underneath your feet, you're sure that there's nothing that could grow here. But you can try, plant and sow over and over again until a single leaf will sprout, until a plant bears fruit.
There's nothing else all around the place, nothing but stretches and miles upon miles of empty land. You like it that way. It's just you and him, him and you. You'd never have it any other way.
For the first time in a very long time, you feel like you can finally breathe. Fate has finally granted you reprieve.
“It's perfect.” You smile, stepping forward, reaching for his hand and then squeezing it once. “It's home.”
Hobie's lips slowly curl up into a smile, intertwining your fingers around his own. “What are we waitin' for?” With a sudden arm around the back of your knees, he gracefully carries you in his arms, earning a surprised yelp and laughter from you. You grasp at his vest, giggling against his chest. “Let's get inside.”
Even in his arms, you still feel the gnawing in the back of your mind. The danger that lurks behind the mountains, a danger that you both are ignoring for now in place of bliss. It's as if a heavy blanket is laid upon your chest, crushing you under its weight, breaking your rib cage in half, squishing your heart until a mush of blood and muscle is the only thing left in its wake.
Then, there's the nature of the man from the place you once called your home. You think he'd kill you the moment he sees you in the arms of Hobie, laughing against his chest, holding on to him as if he's your husband. Should I tell Hobie? You thought to yourself, it will ruin him. It will ruin you in his mind. Your heart thuds against your chest akin to a train engine just from thinking about it. You think it'll never go away, that it will continue to eat at you like you're a carcass left for the vultures in a dry humid desert. But for now, you stay laughing against his skin, kissing every inch of his face as he brings you inside. Until you're ready, you promise yourself that you'll tell him, even if it ruins you.
Hobie, unbeknownst to the inner turmoil you're having; kisses you back gently, dry lips against your sweaty forehead, he doesn't mind as he peppers your face. It's a battle, where you two are the winners.
You kick about in his arms, the stubble on his chin tickles you, and of course he notices it. He decides to hear you laugh, really laugh— so he nudges your head away, rubbing his stubble up and down your neck. Your giggles immediately fill the home, leaning away, hands patting his chest rapidly. If not for his hold on you, you would've fell seconds ago.
“Enough!” You shriek, but your own laughter betrays you. With every nudge, you forget about your thoughts, only focusing on the man before you.
Hobie wheezes, moving an inch away from your neck. “You sure? I don't think ‘m done yet.” He fixes his grasp on you, hand placed just above your ribs, fingers flexing, threatening to tickle you there.
You scoff, a sound similar to a giggle. “We've been on the road for a long time, Hobie, and we haven't had a proper bath in weeks!” He opens his mouth to speak. “A dip in the river doesn't count.”
With furrowed brows, he leans closer, lips curled mischievously. “You tellin’ me that I smell?”
You chuckle, hand patting his cheek lovingly. “No, I'm saying that I smell.”
“Really?” Hobie starts to lean closer but you stop him with your hand on his forehead. He smiles, trying to wiggle his head. “I was just about to check!”
There's the same glint in your eyes. You hum, cradling his jaw, pushing him gently upwards. The scar on his neck is in full display to you, Hobie tries to shake his head in protest, his sudden insecurity for the raised scar makes him think that you were second guessing your choices. But with your simple movement of pulling yourself up, enough to be eye level to the scar, and with your lips resting upon it makes him think otherwise.
He turns into honey under your touch, and you're the one licking his sweetness off of your finger tips.
You feel his staggered breath under your lips, Hobie almost drops you the second you kiss his scar. He feels your love through it all, fingers digging into your side but not enough to leave a mark. Closing his eyes, he lets you peck as your thumb runs along his Adam's apple that bops up and down with every nervous swallow. He even leans upwards to give you more space.
“I missed you.” Hobie says in a breathy whisper while you continue to attack his skin, hand pressed on your back, helping lift you up. “I should've told you that when I first—” You hold onto his nape to kiss higher, nipping gently, earning a shaky exhale from him. “—fuckin’ hell, you'll be the death of me. Five minutes in and you're already tryin’ to—”
“Knock knock?”
“Oh fuck—!” You suddenly drop down to the floor, butt aching as you stare at the visitor standing in the doorway.
“Shit—” Hobie fumbles, none of the coolness he exhibited during your journey. He tries to help you up, but then immediately decides to get his gun out that he also flounders over. His gun falls, bullets falling out, metal clanking on the dusty wooden floors. “Ah, fuck!” Kneeling down, he tries to pick up all the scattered bullets.
“Caught you in a bad time, huh?”
You glance between Hobie and the woman in the doorway. Hobie sighs, eyes staring daggers at the stranger. Her curly hair is styled in braids, leather chaps and jacket matching, hands casually placed inside her jean pockets. The sun behind her drapes her in gold, the same colour as the hat sitting atop her head. Her genuine smile is one of those contagious smiles that turns your frown into a friendly grin, you smile wider when you meet with her eyes that are laced with amusement. She gives you a wink, and then returns her attention towards Hobie who has given up on picking up his ammo.
“No, no, take your time, Hobie.”
He sighs, head falling down in shame. “What are you doin' ‘ere, Riri?”
“I was on my routine check. Imagine my surprise when I saw Bucky frolicking outside with a new horse.” Riri enters, hand reaching towards you. “The name's Riri, a friend of Hobie's.”
You smile up at her, taking her hand as she gracefully lifts you back up on your feet. “Y/N, nice to meet you.”
“Oh, I know who you are.” She shakes your hand, leaning slightly to whisper in a louder tone. “You're even prettier than what this loser told me.”
Hobie sighs, “Riri, c’mon—”
“Why don't you get up, cowboy?” Riri lets your hand go, she then crosses her arms over her chest whilst you watch them interact.
Hobie stays kneeling, turned away from you and Riri, hand conveniently on his lap. “Don't you dare tell her shit, Riri.” He says, green eyes narrowed into slits.
You tamp down a laugh, glancing down at Hobie who just shakes his head with a ghost of a smile. You're tempted to tease him too, but Riri catching you two in the act was enough embarrassment for him.
“You told stories about me?” If your cheeks could run any warmer, you can boil water on it.
“He's a chatterbox when he's drunk.”
“He is?” You turn towards the said man, beaming at him.
“Don't you have anythin' better to do—?” Hobie gets ignored as Riri continues to chat with you. He resigns, huffing in place.
“Mm-hmm, he says the craziest shit. You think he's all that out there but the second he drinks his third glass, he's out in my saloon yammering about something. Sometimes that something has to do with you.” She pauses, nudging your shoulder. “Don't worry, he only tells me the good stuff. I practically already know you.” Your eyes widen. “Not in a weird way, in a…”
“Good job, Ri, you made it awkward.” Hobie eggs her on.
Riri rolls her eyes. “She knows what I'm talking about, right?” She turns to you, smiling softly like she's already trying to apologize.
“That so? Don't worry, I understand what you meant.” You flick your eyes towards Hobie, who's still unable to stand up. “Since you already know me—”
“Ah, yes!” She claps her hands in understanding. “You may go to my saloon and dig more details about what Hobie's been doing these past five years.” Riri meets Hobie's eyes. “You never know, you might even come across our old gang.”
You copy her, teasing Hobie even more. “The more the merrier then.”
“Great,” Hobie huffs, finally standing up. “You've created a monster, Riri.”
“Don't call her a monster!” Riri acts offended for you.
“Yeah! Don't call me a monster!”
Hobie could only sigh in defeat. He mumbles under his breath, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose. “If I wasn't so tired.”
“Oh that reminds me.” You say excitedly, you've finally found a friend after everything that has happened. “Do you want to stay for tea?”
“We don't have anythin', love.” Hobie gestures towards the near empty kitchen cabinets that were left open.
Riri smirks at the name he used for you. Hobie warns her with a look. “That would be great, but I gotta go back out there. I heard there's a huge deer roaming around and I want to be the one to get it before anyone else does.”
“That's too bad.” You're genuinely disappointed.
“Yeah, that's too bad.” Hobie copies sarcastically, less disappointed.
Riri chuckles, “don't worry, Y/N, my saloon's always open for you.” She clasps your shoulder. “Welcome to Scarlett Meadows, Y/N.”
“Thank you, Riri. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise, love,” Riri mocks him. Hobie audibly groans, she smacks his chest. “Welcome back, loser.” With a flourish, Riri exits the house and then jumps back on her horse to ride away. Hobie closes and locks the front door behind her.
“I like her already.”
Hobie wraps his arm around your middle, pulling you close for an embrace. “‘m glad, she's a good friend.”
You nuzzle his shoulder, to which he takes your cheek, already leaning down to meet you halfway. “The mood's ruined, Hobs.”
“Goddamnit.” He says, yet he still chuckles against your lips. Letting you go, you stay locked with his eyes while walking backwards towards the stairs. “Where are you goin'?” There's a growing smile on yours and Hobie's lips.
“You coming, cowboy?” You ask, and you see him flustered once again. Biting his lip, tapping his foot, and hands on his hips. As you head upstairs, you hear his heavy footsteps follow you; until you feel his arms wrap around you impatiently, carrying you the rest of the way while your laughter rings around the house.
—
Hobie, under the gaze of the sun, with his sweaty work shirt sticking to his skin as he hammers the windowsill in place; fixing the once shoddy workmanship left by the previous owner. You ogle him unabashedly. The ring that was previously hidden under the fabric of his bandana now sits upon his ring finger, you cried when you first saw it there for the first time in five years. He held you then, just like how he cradled you back when he gave the identical one to you.
He clings on the tresses that are filled with dried vines and creaking from his added weight. He hangs precariously, as if he's an expert climber at heart; you can't help but stare at him as he works on your shared home. You suppose you could use the old shakey tresses as your excuse on why you're watching him instead of tilling the land like you're supposed to. Telling him that you're only keeping watch of him just in case he falls so you could catch him. Which is impossible by itself, you'd break all your bones if you tried. But you suppose it'll be alright if it's for him. As if he feels your eyes on him, he looks over his shoulder, a smile slowly curling on his lips as he spots your form still kneeling on the same spot he left you in twenty minutes ago.
The soil balled up into your hands sits there forgotten. A bag of cherry tomatoes sits next to you, wind almost taking them in its breeze as one passes by. You don't look away when he calls you out after you were caught. Instead, you stare harder, unabashedly winking at him. To which earns a hearty laugh from Hobie who almost falls from his bout of laughter.
You stagger, hands raised towards him as if you can catch him from where you are. “Careful!”
Hobie continues to laugh, calming your worries. “‘m alright, you should watch your tomatoes—” a strong wind picks up, with summer almost completely gone as the colder breeze carries your bag of seeds away from you. “And there it goes!” His guffaw fades from behind as you scramble for the seeds.
“Fuck!” You yell, hand placed on your sun hat so it doesn't get blown away. Despite you running at full speed towards what could be next season's meal, you smile widely, you're at peace here.
Hobie follows after you, running and catching up to you in a mad dash. “Hurry slowpoke!” He passes you, laughing as he goes.
“Slowpoke?! C’mere you little—!” Hobie suddenly stops and then turns around to catch you mid sprint. Your body slams into him, earning a grunt from Hobie, but his smile stays as he holds you in his arms.
“Gotcha!” He embraces you in place, face nudging your shoulder fondly.
“You're all sweaty!” You shriek out happily, hand placed upon his waist, fists clumped in his shirt. The seeds belong to the wind now, you suppose.
“You're no better! You're covered in dirt, lovie!” Hobie playfully wipes his cheeks on your airy shirt, leaving streaks of sweat on the soft linen. You laugh louder, trying to scramble away. And he feels like he has finally found his home in your arms.
You wipe your soil marred hands on his shoulders, leaving your hand prints on his once pristine shirt. You suddenly stop giggling, Hobie thinks he did something wrong until he follows your line of sight. There, a few ways away from the two of you, stands a black dog eating from your bag of seeds.
“Is that a coyote?” You ask, still holding on to him.
“Don't think so.” He whispers back.
“She shouldn't eat that, it might get her sick.” You untangle yourself from Hobie, and then you slowly make your way towards said dog. Hobie stops you halfway, hand gently on your shoulder.
“It might bite you.” He roams his eyes over to her black coat and long tail, her ears are floppy on the side of her head as she continues to munch on the crunchy seeds. There's no collar or any indication that she has an owner, she looks fine and somewhat healthy. Before he could take you away just in case the dog decides that you're a better meal, you're running back towards the house in a mad dash. “Where are you goin'?”
“I'm getting some jerky!”
“What? Why?!” He yells back as you get further and further away.
“Just stay there and watch her!” Your dusty boots are already stomping away inside as Hobie does what you told.
Hobie crouches down, elbows sitting atop his knees, watching the dog chow down. The black labrador pauses from eating from the presence watching her, head peeking out from the bag. Her dark eyes blink at Hobie, he waits for her, hand reaching out in a friendly manner and trying not to scare her away with any sudden movements. The dog sniffs, tail slowly wagging as she walks forward.
You watch from behind, eyes growing wider as you see Hobie let the dog sniff at his hand. When she finally lets him pet her head, Hobie looks back at you with a soft smile.
“Look at you, you're an animal whisperer.”
“Nah, I bet she was just hungry and knows how to swindle.”
Chuckling, you saunter towards them slowly, kneeling beside Hobie, you place the dried meat beside her. “There you go, it's better than some seeds.”
Hobie observes how you gently smile at the friendly dog as she tentatively sits in front of the meat. You let the dog approach you, waiting patiently as she eats until there's none left. She sniffs your knee, nudging you with her snout. He laughs as you surrender the rest of the beef jerky.
It's a peaceful silence of him and you just sitting there on the dry grassy ground while the strange dog eats his entire supply of jerky. He suppose he can always run to the general store for more.
The sun is high up, yet it's a comfortable heat on his skin. He preferred summers here, the searing heat always kept him awake and alert. But with you now here, he prefers how the cooling wind nips at his skin, how the leaves are now turning into sunsets that you always adore. And how much you wake up clinging to his side every morning. He prefers this, living with you, finally experiencing life again as if he picked up a book from where he left off years ago; it took some time and a lot of hurt to get here, but he would've done it all over again if it ended just like this. Maybe he'd do better, maybe he would make better decisions— for now, instead of lamenting about all the things that have happened, he'd rather stay in the present where you're currently in.
“I think we should keep her.” You say after a few moments. Hobie just now noticed how the dog now lays on your lap, probably sleeping off her meal. Your hand rubs softly on her back, eyes shining under the sun. “My aunt never let me have pets, she said that a proper lady shouldn't smell of wet dog.”
“Look at you now, covered in dirt, sweat and dog slobber.”
“She'd fucking die.” You laugh, it's the first time you've ever laughed after mentioning her. You finally feel like the shackles of her memory are starting to loosen up against your ankles.
Your happy laughter is slowly replaced with a sob, Hobie, with tears in his own eyes, holds you against him. Arms enveloping you, hands cradling your head as if the simple movement would take it all away. He wishes it did, but he knows that it will take time, and he'll wait, and be there for you no matter how long it takes. Even if it doesn't fully go away.
Under the sunshine of autumn, dry blades of grass underneath you, breeze whispering and carrying your sobs into the wind; Hobie holds you like nothing else matters, like it's just you and him, him and you against the bloody, forsaken world.
—
Clover the dog has taken upon you, you named her after the first piece of clover that sprouted along the property after you and Hobie toiled away for weeks just trying to keep it all alive. You've both fallen into a routine, you two wake up later than you both intended, snuggling under the thick covers. Always rushing through the routine to have more time to tend the house. You share chores, you cook in the morning while he cooks dinner. He fixes the house, while you try to revive the farmland. At night, you check all his previous injuries for any signs of it opening up; and he does it to you too, as gentle and careful like you were. All in all, you're proud of what you two have accomplished.
It's your very own borrowed heaven.
The house is now fully painted a soft blue; the same shade you both saw when you crossed the ocean to this new land. The door that was once a murky, muddy brown is now in a snowy white that matches the windows and picket fences. The fences aren't complete yet, the rest are still laying next to the barn where Cherry and Bucky hunker down every night after an energetic ride around their pen that used to be covered in piles of old wood and metal scraps. It took an entire week to clean it up even with the combined powers of you, Hobie, and Riri, who decided to pay you two a visit from time to time. She said that she was only making sure that the ‘loser’ hasn't hurt you in any way. To which Hobie promptly rolled his eyes and threw a plank of wood at her feet, to his words ‘make yourself useful instead of being a pain in my own home.’ You joked that he's starting to sound like one of those old men who would chase people out of their property if someone would step a foot onto his grass. And of course he had to call you grandma for the rest of the day in front of Riri because of it.
You sigh in content, smiling eyes roaming along the greener grass from the porch where you sit; and following along bucky and cherry who are running freely around their paddock. Clover huffs in your lap, and you chuckle, wondering what she's dreaming about. The wind picks up, rustling the leaves in the trees, and carrying it in its breeze. The swing under you shifts from the strong wind, hinges creaking along as you push with your socked feet. Hobie built you this swing right on the porch when he found you looking at the stars with your back aching from the lack of a seat. To add to it, he made it so that it'll fit you and him together with Clover sleeping on your lap.
You cover yourself more with Hobie's jacket, shivering slightly, nose and fingers cold. There's a sudden warmth on your cheek, you don't flinch or gasp from the surprise, knowing that it's Hobie with a warm cup of tea.
“Hi,” you smile up, Hobie returns the grin. He looks softer, edges rounded up. He's fresh from a bath, skin smelling of lavender and citrus. He prefers to wear softer and fleecy clothes now, leaving all the leather behind unless he's going for a ride towards town. Now he likes wearing knitted jackets that keeps him warm and comfortable without the stiffness of leather. He prefers jeans now too, and shirts with no collars that clings to his scar uncomfortably. A testament to how the first two buttons on his work shirt are unbuttoned, showing off his chest. “You look handsome.”
“When do I not?” He holds your cup in one hand and a glass of amber in the other. The golden ring in his ring finger shines in the afterglow.
You tilt your head playfully, taking his glass instead of the mug, eyes never leaving his own. He raises a brow when you take a sip from the glass, feeling the burn from the alcohol line your throat. “You're right, never. You always look good.” Your words are only for him and him only as you whisper it.
“Damn right.” He accepts defeat, letting you drink his whiskey while he drinks from your mug of tea. Clinking his glass against your own, you let out a snort, scooching to allow him space as he sits.
The warm liquid seeps into his calloused hands, eyes flicking over to you and between the land that he once thought was barren. Your plants still haven't borne fruit, but the greenery has sprouted like a miracle on dead soil. You almost gave up on the first month when nothing was working in your favour when the ground was still dry and grey. But you didn't, you kept at it everyday, tilling the soil, planting and replanting, watering everything until a single sprout appeared overnight. You jumped for joy when you saw, he still smiles remembering you running towards him with Clover in tow, and slamming yourself against him just to snog him until he was breathless.
He couldn't have made this into a house without you. This wouldn't be a home without you either.
You poke his cheek, feeling how much softer it is than before. “Whatever you're thinking about, stop it.”
“You want me to stop thinkin’ ‘bout you?”
You groan with a smile, head plopping down on his shoulder. “You never fail to rile me up.”
“Pot meet kettle, love.” He looks at you lovingly, like how a man would stare into the eyes of his wife.
Smiling, you place the mouth of your glass on his lips, letting him sip from the amber while he does the same with his tea placed on your own lips. You both drink, arms crossed over the other, lending each other's hand over the other.
You gulp down the warmth, letting it seep through your bones and muscles, letting it relax into you like a hug from a beloved.
Meanwhile, Hobie never let his eyes off you. Deep green eyes, the same colour as the sea of clovers in front of the home, has found its place on your lips, watching you drink from his cup while he drinks from your own.
A comfortable silence settles over the three of you. Clover snores on your lap, happy and content after finding her home. Hobie's hand kneads at your nape, letting his cool hands settle over your warm skin. With your head placed on his shoulder, you bask in your personal paradise. The birds chirp just a few ways away from you, finding their nests settled on the windmill that you two haven't fixed just yet. The sunset paints the entire farm in shades of orange and pink, hues of autumn blanketing the peaceful place you and Hobie built.
This is home, not the marbled walls of the manor you used to reside. Not the fine silks you used to sleep on, *this is home; with it's rough edges, broken pipes that groan in the night, with its walls made from wood and brick that feels cold on your skin— it's home, and you wouldn't have it any other way.
You feel him shift closer to you, lips pressing softly against your temple. His hand tracing above your scar. “Shoulder feelin’ alright?”
Humming, you close your eyes as he peppers kisses from your temple down to your wind whipped cheek. “It's feeling much better now, thanks to you.” He takes your glass and places it down on the floor right next to his own mug.
“I didn't do much.” Hobie chuckles, returning to your side not a moment longer, his knuckles brushes along your collarbone. “‘sides, you did all the healin’”
You sigh, eyes meeting up with his own. He can see love in your simple gaze. “Yeah, only because you've cleaned it every night before bed.” Hobie chuckles when you poke his stomach, in return, he nudges his nose against your own, earning a soft hum of approval from you. “How's your head? And everything else?” You narrow your eyes playfully, “can you still count to a hundred?”
His loud guffaw makes you laugh. Shaking his head, he pulls you closer. “It's good,” he says against your lips, breath fanning across your soft skin. “I've got a good nurse.”
“Your nurse didn't go to school for it.” You joke again. Hobie pecks your lips once, twice, until you're pulling him in by his shirt. You feel his smile throughout it all. He kisses you gently, yet he holds you like he's about to lose you.
The much needed kiss is interrupted by Clover sneezing on your lap, snot covering your flowy skirt. You pull away with a laugh, eyes still closed as his fingers still grips your chin, already feeling him pull you in once again.
“Hobie.” You call while he continues to snog you, kissing along the shape of your lips, etching how your lips feel, and how you sigh against him; how you kiss back wholeheartedly.
He hums, murmuring your name while the sound of his kisses echo around the porch and atop the songs of birds flying overhead.
You giggle as his searing hands find its way under your shirt and onto your stomach. He pauses, eyes blinking slowly at you. You clamp down, shining lips shut closed as he raises a brow.
“What? You ticklish now?” Hobie asks with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
You shake your head with a smile. “Nope.”
There's a grin slowly forming on his equally shiny lips. “I think I need to reacquaint myself, I don't remember you being ticklish—” he pokes your side. “—right ‘ere.”
You gasp in feigned offense, “I'm not!”
“You sure ‘bout that?” Wiggling his fingers, you laugh, reaching for his hands before he could attack.
“Okay! Only on that part.” You confess with a breathy laugh. He nods, tucking that information inside his head to be used one day.
Hobie returns to his drink, opting to sip at what was supposed to be your tea. The tea is now tepid, but he still drinks it anyway. You push the swing with your feet, softly, the swing sways back and forth while Clover lays asleep with your hand petting her head.
“We should take Riri up on her offer.” You say into the growing dark of the farm, watching the sun go further down and the light fade away. “It's been three months since she first invited us over.”
“She can wait,” Hobie has latched himself on you, arm snaked around your middle as he finishes his tea.
“Want to hog me all to yourself then?”
“That obvious?” He glances at your beaming face before his eyes stare at Bucky and Cherry trotting inside the barn on their own. Sometimes he thinks those two are actually humans trapped inside a horse's body. He has never seen smarter horses than them.
“Are you worried? About me getting back out there?” You play with the button of his work shirt, letting his scent waft over you when a breeze carries it towards you.
“What if…” Hobie sighs, eyes staring at you with worry. It's a grip taking hold around his body. “What if someone finds us again?” He remembers all the times you two were found by both the law and your aunt’s hired guns even when he took extra precautions. There's still that looming threat especially with how suspiciously peaceful your journey to the farm was. He has every right to be worried, you are too. “As much as good you are with a gun, I don't want to see you shootin’ it at someone again. ‘m… not tryin’ to control you, I just—”
You hold his cheek, thumb brushing along his jaw tenderly, feeling all the tiny scars left on his skin. “No, I understand. You're not like them, Hobie. No one will ever control me ever again.” At your words, he leans towards your touch, hand lifting up to meet with yours. “I won't let them.” Nodding, he kisses your palm, you notice how his hand shakes above your own. You don't mention it. “It's been five months since the train, they might have given up.”
“Let's hope so.” He softly says, green eyes gazing at you. Eyes that haven't seen peace in years, until now.
“Yeah, hope.” It's a fickle thing, but it's enough to light a fire in you. If they come, you'll fight with everything you've got. You've got everything to lose now, and you're willing to wield a gun once more to protect it all. If not, then it'll be a gift that you won't throw away, you'd live here peacefully, live the life you've always longed for. You're afraid that it would be the former.
—
You saddle up the horses in the barn, Buckeye watches your every move as you strap the saddle over to Cherry. There’s worry in his inky eyes, a look that you're all too familiar with. Clover runs around the barn, sniffing everything she comes across.
“You alright there, Buck? What's got you all worried, huh?” You don't expect him to answer, but he neighs in response, a sharp one that has you raising a brow. You've never heard him make that irritated sound. “What's gotten into you?” As you slide your hands down on Cherry's stomach to finish the saddle, Bucky, neighs loudly, hooves thumping against the ground. He looks like he's about to rush into you and throw you over. “Bucky, calm down!” You put your hands up, staying away from both horses.
“Buckeye!” Hobie's booming voice ricochets around the barn as he enters, putting a stop to Bucky's tantrum. Even Clover stops running for a second before returning to her adventure. “What's gotten into you, boy?” He pets his snout, effectively calming him down.
“I was putting on Cherry's saddle and he suddenly got mad.”
“He looks alright.” Nodding, Hobie roams his eyes all over his horse, checking each of his horse shoes in case there's something embedded in his feet. “Nothin’s wrong with him. What about Cherry? He's been overprotective of her lately.”
“Ah shit, do you think I put it on too tight?” Hobie keeps his hold on Bucky's reins, just in case. You check all the belts and buckles on the saddle, finding the fit just right. Until you get to her stomach. “Wait—” hands roaming around, you feel a bump. “What is that?” Cherry looks at you, if horses could raise their brow, she would've done it already. “Are you—?!” You gasp, eyes meeting with Hobie. Glaring at the horse next to him, you embrace Cherry. “Bucky, what did you do to Cherry!”
He already knows what you found. “I think it was a combined effort, love.” Scratching the back of Bucky's ear, Hobie chuckles at your reaction. “You did not waste time, huh, boy?”
“She's smaller than him!” You look at Bucky as if he can explain himself, to which the horse just huffs at you. Hobie keeps patting Buckeye on his back, while Cherry isn't even listening in on the conversation anymore. She prefers the pile of hay next to her, eating without a care.
“And? You are too compared to me.” Hobie unabashedly answers for Bucky. You gasp then laugh, a laugh that changes to a playful offended chortle. You grab a bucket from the ground, ready to throw it at him.
“You should run, Hobie!” Before you could finish yelling, Hobie's already sprinting back inside the house. You run after him, bucket in hand, ready to throw carrots at him.
Hobie waits for carrots to be pelted at him, only to turn around to see you gawking at the planted vegetable patch before you. He stops by the steps on the porch, hands on his hips as you let go of the bucket with a thud.
“What's wrong?”
“They've grown.” You whisper in disbelief, Hobie almost didn't catch your words. Chuckling, you look at Hobie with tears in your eyes. “We’ve got tomatoes!” Pouncing on him, he catches you, arms holding you in place while you celebrate against his neck.
He roams his eyes downwards towards the tomatoes until he spots a handful of it just under a bunch of leaves. “Holy shit!” Hand behind your head, he jumps up and down, matching your excitement. “You did it, love!”
You lean away, and then immediately peppers his face with a dozen kisses, leaving him almost dizzy. Before he could kiss back, you're already back on the ground, plucking the ripest looking one. It's as big as your hand, red and plump; ripe for the taking. All the countless times you've read botany books have finally borne fruit.
Wiping the dirt off of the tomato on your shirt, you hand it to him. “Wanna do the honors?”
“This is all you, lovie.” He gently places it back in your palm, hand lingering on yours; identical rings shining brightly.
You nod as thanks, heart beating rapidly. With a tentative bite, you let the juice coat your mouth, overflowing until it's dripping from your chin. It's perfect, and Hobie thinks you look perfect even with juice sliding down your chin and arm.
“Do you want a room? Because I can go.” Hobie jokes, you laugh heartily.
“Here,” you say, mouth full. “Try it.”
Hobie takes it, biting down just as the same as you, with juices flowing down his arm and onto his shirt. “Fuck!”
You nod rapidly, pride filling your chest. “Right?!”
“Y/N,” he calls, mouth still taking bites of the produce. Gesturing towards the neighboring plants, he watches as your expression morphs into pure elation when you spot your potatoes growing out of the soil, like bald heads peeking out from underneath.
There's dozens of them all lined up and ready to be harvested. You almost guffaw, satisfied and successful at growing something on the once thought barren land.
“We're gonna need a basket.” Perhaps your trip to Riri's saloon will have to wait.
—
The trip to town took longer since Cherry was out of commission, and you only had Bucky to take with you on the ride. By the time you and Hobie make it to Riri's saloon, lunch was in full swing. The place is smaller compared to the other establishments you've been in, and yet, it doesn't lack the energy. Customers line the bar, eating and drinking their fill. Jaunty music fills your ears just as when the saloon doors close behind you, Hobie's hand is placed on the small of your back, fingertips pressing softly, leading you towards the far end of the saloon where the bar is placed.
You roam your eyes around, the band plays on a stage in your right, cello, fiddles and trumpets play alongside the piano. Customers dance around with their partners, smiling faces whizz past you, giving you a polite greeting as you go. There are numerous tables littered around with the people sitting there and chatting energetically, their conversations rising above the music.
A hearty laugh above reaches your ears, when you look up, you see a spiral staircase that leads to the second floor with a balcony. A few patrons look down at you with their drinks in their hands, some are watching the poker game with amusement in their eyes. Drinking glasses clink around while you continue to make your way towards Riri who happens to be tending the bar.
The walls are in a creamy white with rows upon walls of paintings full of portraits and landscapes. There's a giant moose antler above the bar, looming over everyone. The place smells of booze and whiskey. Oddly enough, the scent of melted chocolate lingers above the fog of rum and moonshine. A crystal chandelier hangs high up on the ceiling, the centerpiece of the saloon. Sunlight from the windows filters through the brightly coloured glass, drenching the walls and floor with a kaleidoscope of light.
“Hey, Hobie!” Someone yells from above, Hobie gives them a curt nod. A handful of people recognize him, some greet him kindly like an old friend would. Some gaze at him with trepidation in their eyes.
A stranger with an eyepatch clasps his shoulder before staggering outside. Hobie chuckles and rolls his eyes at the older man.
“Someone's popular.” You whisper.
“A side effect of my reputation.” He smiles gently, fingers tapping on the small of your back. Leading you towards the corner of the bar, the far end where the back door sits behind it; he settles the two of you there, further away from strangers that could make you uncomfortable.
“Finally!” Riri exclaims, “the prodigal son returns!” Everyone at the bar hoots and whistles at Hobie. He ignores each of them, earning some booing and hissing from the crowd. You chuckle from seeing Hobie hide his smile under the brim of his hat. Riri slides in front of you, beer bottle in hand and then plops it in Hobie's waiting hand. “And with the prettiest girl this side of town has ever seen. What have you two been up to in your little slice of heaven, huh? Haven't seen you in months.”
“Busy with the farm.” Hobie says against the lip of his bottle, hand never leaving your back.
“Farm? Your dirt farm? You sure it's not you getting busy with our girl here, eh, Hobs?” Riri gives you a knowing look, you're flustered enough as it is. Hobie just shakes his head, eyes roaming everywhere but your eyes or Riri's.
You clear your throat. “We actually managed to grow something out there. We've got tomatoes, potatoes and even some carrots and strawberries blooming.” Your genuine smile turns Riri's playful one to a proud grin. “We'd bring you some of our harvest but we only rode on Bucky. We didn't want to stress him out further.”
“Why's that?” Riri cleans a glass with a cloth, “Is Cherry sick? We've got a veterinarian here for that.”
“No, she's pregnant.”
“Goddamn, Bucky did not waste any time.”
Hobie nods, “that's what I said.”
“Let's hope his rider doesn't do the same, eh?” She sends you both a wink.
“Fuckin' hell, Riri.” Hobie squeezes the bridge of his nose whilst you're left blubbering from her words. “Is there lunch left for us?” He says with a sigh.
“If you're nice about it, yeah.” Riri looks over at you. “Except for you, pretty, there's always a meal here for you.” You smile, head tilting towards Hobie's shoulder from bashfulness.
“Roast beef still on the menu?” Hobie asks, bottle half empty, stomach growling.
“Say please.” Riri says pointedly.
Hobie huffs, flicking his eyes towards you briefly before surrendering. “...please.”
Riri smirks, “it's always on the menu.” Hobie rolls his eyes at that.
He pokes your back, knuckles tracing around where he poked you. “How ‘bout you? Riri's chef can cook anythin’ you want.”
“Don't steal my words, Hobie.” Riri raises a brow. “Karl can make you anything you want.”
You laugh nervously at the eyes staring and waiting for you. “Uh, I'll have what he's having. And…” Hobie encourages you with a smile and a squeeze on your back. “Soup, any kind of soup you've got available.”
Riri pats the back of your hand with a soft smile. “We've got pumpkin, is that alright?”
“It's perfect.” You turn towards Hobie who's beaming at you, hiding his face with the brim of his hat from the rest of the customers.
—
You watch and listen with a smile in your seat, hand clasped around a glass of orange juice. The band ramps up their set, the music has gotten jauntier and happier right after you finished eating. More people have left the bar to either dance or play poker upstairs. Hobie still sits behind you, fingers curled around your belt loop lovingly. You feel him tapping rhythmically to the sound of the snare drum.
Looking over your shoulder, he nods at you with a soft smile. “They're good, aren't they?” You ask, chin atop your shoulder.
“Yeah, but I think you can beat them.”
You roll your eyes with a chuckle, fully twisting around on the bar stool to wipe a drop of sauce at the tip of his chin, fingers lingering there for a moment. “It's not a competition, Hobs.”
Before Hobie could give a reply, Riri slides over with a slice of chocolate cake. “You know how to play?”
You eye the dessert. “The piano, but I haven't practiced in a while.”
“She's bein’ humble. She's bloody brilliant on the keys.” Hobie takes the plate from Riri with a quick thank you, and then he places it in front of you casually.
You almost protested, thinking that Hobie yanked another customer's order. But Riri proves your thoughts wrong when she, herself, hands you a small fork for your dessert. You mumble a soft thank you, too shy, too grateful to say it louder lest you burst into tears. The cake has chocolate swirls with a large, plump strawberry on top of it. You don't waste time digging in.
“Isn't there an old broken piano at your place?” Riri continues the conversation, eyes flicking to your happy face with a soft smile.
“Yeah, been thinkin’ ‘bout fixin’ the damn thing but I have no idea how.” You almost actually cried on your cake when Hobie said those words.
“I think old man Roberto can fix it.” You savour the cake, listening in on the conversation.
“Your pianist?”
“Yeah, he's a doctor too, did you know that? Pretty great if you ask me—” Riri pauses, you follow her confused look. You see Hobie's stony expression, green eyes aflame like greek fire engulfing an entire fleet of ships. You and Riri have the same idea by following his gaze. She clears her throat at the sight, while you only see a broad shouldered man on the stairs, watching the band play.
“You okay?” You feel worried all of a sudden, what if this was another Culver situation? “Do you know him?”
“An old…acquaintance. Don't worry, he just owes me money.” Patting your back, he doesn't want to lie to you. What would that even bring?
“Oh, alright.” You slide the plate over to him. “I saved you some cake.”
Hobie chuckles, “nah, it's all yours, love.”
“Thank you,” you take the plate back. “I was just being nice.” Hobie shakes his head with a chuckle, you miss how he's having a silent conversation with Riri while you chow down.
“What did you even put in this, Riri? It's so fucking good!” With your fork, you scrape the plate to gather the rest of the chocolate icing. You have no shame at this point, it's the best cake you've ever had.
Riri takes a while to reply, so you lift your head up to see what's going on. You're met with her genuine smile. “Don't thank me, thank my grandma, it's a family recipe.”
“Well, thank you, Riri's grandma.”
Hobie stares at something behind you, Riri interrupts you before you could look over your shoulder. “Do you want to meet the band?”
“Holy shit! Really?” You grin from ear to ear, turning to see Hobie give you a nod and a small smile. “Do I have something in my teeth?” You grin widely, Hobie shakes his head, amused by you.
“Yeah, they're really nice. Come on, let's get you acquainted.” Riri jumps over the bar effortlessly, taking you by the hand and leading you towards the dance floor.
“I'll be back, Hobie!” You excitedly say over your shoulder as Riri twirls you around in the middle of the crowd. Hobie chuckles in his seat, drinking a cup of tea. He hears Riri ask you to dance, to which you happily agree.
Hobie keeps an eye on you, and he trusts Riri to keep you safe until he's done dealing with him. Hobie watches as Miguel saunters off towards him, spurs clinking as he sits down on your seat.
“Looks like Riri took your girl.” He says while ordering a beer from the other bartender.
“Why didn't you tell me that it was her, Miguel?”
Miguel catches the drink in his open palm as the bottle slides from the other end to his hand. “Simple, I didn't know who she was.” He cracks it open by banging the cap against the edge of the bar. The metal clanks on the floor as it falls.
“Bullshit, O’Hara.” Hobie says through clenched teeth.
“She has a sweet tooth doesn't she?” He refers to your almost clean plate.
“Miguel.” Hobie utters more pointedly, taking the beer from his hand before he even takes a sip. “Why didn't you tell me it was her?”
Miguel sighs, “I didn't know it was her. But I had a hunch. People at camp talk y’know. And you're a blabber mouth when you're drunk. A deadly combination.” He eyes his beer bottle, Hobie waits for more answers. “The guy who gave me the job just gave me her description. The same description I gave you, Hobie. Not my fault you didn't recognize her.”
“Who gave it to you?”
Miguel flexes his hand, asking for his drink back. Hobie clenches his jaw before sliding the bottle back to him reluctantly. “You should thank me. I got you two together again.”
“Just tell me, Miguel, or I'll ask for that bounty you owe me.”
“You technically didn't complete the job, so…” Hobie stares at him with the same look that Miguel has only seen him sport when he has his target in his crosshairs. “It was a middleman. He said his boss was an oil baron of some kind.” He’s about to take a sip, but doesn't. Grimacing when he brings the bottle back down to only see Hobie having the same fiery look. It brings a shiver down his spine. “Can you stop?”
“Who?”
“Don't know, didn't ask.”
“She could've died, Miguel.” That thought has him trembling in place. Hobie balls his fists, hiding how the mere thought of it shakes him to his core.
“She would've died either way, Hobie. But she had you, if I gave the job to any other person, she would've. Trust me, I did not know it was her, or that you even knew her. It's not like I made her come here.”
Hobie inhales sharply. “It wasn't you who sent the letter?”
“What fucking letter?”
“I sense some tension in the air. You know, conducting business in my establishment isn't allowed. Except if you involve me.” Riri jumps to Miguel's side, taking the beer from his hand, chugging it as sweat drips from her brow. With a sigh, Miguel orders another beer.
“Where's Y/N?” Hobie answers his own question when he sees you playing the piano with the rest of the band. His lips curl up into a smile, fists unclenching at the music you're playing. You're having the time of your life.
“Relax, Romeo, she's fine.” Riri claps to the rhythm. Hobie hears your hearty laugh from where he's sitting. The saloon's band seems to be having fun too.
In Hobie's mind, everything clicks in place. “It was you who sent my letter.” Hobie jabs his finger on Riri's shoulder blade.
She snorts, “of course it was me. I couldn't handle your sulking any longer. Seriously, I was losing customers because of your weekly letter writing and crying session.”
Miguel laughs, he sees Hobie's glare and tamps down to a snicker. Riri leans in the bar to yank a bottle of whiskey from underneath the shelves.
“Why?”
“You weren't happy being a lone ranger.”
Hobie feels like lightning struck him. “Fuckin' hell, Riri, you could've said somethin'. Warned me ‘bout it.”
“And? You'd somehow find it in your heart to immediately forgive her and pick her up from the docks?” Riri pours the whiskey inside three glasses, handing it to each of the men. “You’re like a brother to me, Hobie. We came up in this fuckwad’s gang—” she points at Miguel who's caught in the middle. He just pinches the bridge of his nose. “—at the same time. Do you think I'd let you wallow and die alone in that dirt farm of yours?”
Hobie doesn't answer. He knows that the journey was needed. But if Riri actually warned him about it beforehand, would you be here right now? Or would you be dead somewhere along your journey to him because he couldn't find it in his heart to come to you?
“See? Not everything's my fault. Just a freak coincidence.” Miguel pipes up, now eating a slice of cake just as you have.
Riri ignores him. “I know you had a slight apprehension towards her because of what happened.”
“She could've died, Riri. When I found her, she was trying to steal food.”
Riri breathes shakily, eyes glossing over. “And I'm sorry for that, truly. I never thought that would happen, or that her people would put a bounty on her. I only knew her from you, Hobie. I'm sorry. And I'll apologize to her, I promise.”
“She's really good on that piano.” Miguel comments before returning to his cake. Hobie and Riri continue to ignore him.
Hobie sucks in his teeth. “‘Slight apprehension’ didn't cut it back then.” He whispers.
Riri looks at him with a frown, eyes downturned. She knows his story, and she knows his side of it. “You know when I was a kid I used to hate the edges on bread. I always asked my mom to cut it off for me which added more workload for her, but she still did it.” She smiles fondly. “And now as an adult I love the edges, it's the best part of the bread for me.”
“What are you sayin'?”
“I'm saying that people change. And I'm not just referring to her.” Hobie understands her double entendre.
Hobie scoffs, stealing a quick glance at you. “It's bread, Riri.”
“I can see that she may have thought you were a burden back then but I highly doubt she has the same thoughts now.” Riri takes a sip from her glass. “How would you even know that you were a burden to her when the exact words didn't come out of her own mouth?”
“She told me it wasn't her, I know that now. It was all Hicks, the same fucker that did this to me.” Miguel straightens in his seat, Riri flicks her eyes at his scar knowingly. “They're still lookin’ for her, I know it.”
“If they ever find you both, we have your back.” Riri clasps Hobie's shoulder. He holds her hand briefly before letting go with a thankful nod. “It's the least I can do.” Miguel agrees with a grunt and a pat on his gun.
“It's more than enough, Ri.”
You wave towards Hobie from the small stage, jumping down to walk past the crowd and to him. Hobie's heart feels a little bit lighter from the conversation, like a bullet taken out from his skin.
Miguel stands up, and then pats Hobie and Riri in the shoulder before putting his hat back on. His hazel eyes meet with yours for a second, you give him a polite smile as you navigate your way out of the jam-packed audience.
Miguel fixes his hat, eyes zeroing in on the ring around Hobie's finger. “Nice ring. You two tied the knot without inviting me and the rest of the gang?” You pause by the menu, acting like something caught your eye while you listen in. The saloon is noisy enough for his words to be muffled, but you understood it perfectly.
“Not really,” Hobie glances towards you for a second before flicking his eyes over at his ring that he keeps twisting and turning around his finger.
“Well you've got everything else covered. And I've seen the way you look at her. If that's not marriage, I don't know what is.” Miguel clasps Hobie's shoulder in a parting goodbye, his face is unreadable from where you are. Miguel leans in closer this time, hazel eyes staring into Hobie's soul. His expression turns serious, lips pursed into a thin line, whispering words that you couldn't hear from where you stood. “You gonna tell her all the things you've done to survive this place?”
Hobie stands up to greet you halfway. “Worse, she has seen it.” Miguel leaves, and Hobie holds your hand with a proud smile, but you can tell something happened while you were gone. He sees it, so he leads you back to the bar where Riri waits to tell you everything.
“Did he pay you back?”
“Nah, he didn't have the money on him.”
“What an asshole.” He laughs, not bothering to hide his affection for you in front of the whole saloon any longer.
—
You lean back, smiling at the lavender sunset before you. Hobie's hands are occupied with the reins, but he still finds the time to nuzzle his chin on your shoulder. A small act that has you grinning as you cup his cheek for a moment.
Riri's confession was a surprise to you, but after the shock ended, you couldn't help but let out a loud guffaw in the saloon. You stood out like a sore thumb whilst Hobie rubs your back from how much you were laughing. You even thanked Riri for what she did on Hobie's behalf, to which she sighed in relief from your reaction. If she didn't send that letter, you'd still be in that wretched place, you'd still be half dead, surviving but not living. The journey to Hobie was tough and marred with pain and bloodshed, and yet, you'd take that journey all over again if you knew that he'd be holding you like this once again; that he still loves you despite everything that has happened to him and to you. With a parting hug, and a promise that you'll visit again, you and Hobie set off back on the road towards home.
The route home is filled with an abundance of scenery. Fields of flowers and tall grass line the sides of the bumpy dirt road. Daisies, poppies and baby's breath are in full bloom, its colours bringing even more brightness to the land. Cows and horses graze all over, they look up at the sound of Bucky's hooves thudding against the soil.
Hobie gathers up the reins in one hand, arm holding on to your waist before bending down from his saddle. Buckeye still gallops away as you immediately try to get a hold of Hobie before he falls.
“What are you doing?!” You ask, voice shaky, eyes up front while he has his palm open, gathering flowers on the side of the road.
“Just hold onto me!” Numerous flowers gather in his hand, its petals are filled with dew, sweet smelling and colourful against his leather gloves. Some of the stems are broken from the motion of the galloping horse. But you don't mind as he sends you a wink while he's on the side like he's doing the most mundane thing.
Laughing, you help pull him up. He hands you the bundle of flowers from behind, lips brushing along the shell of your ear. “That'll be five bucks.”
You giggle, thumb brushing along one of its red petals. “That's expensive for a roadside bouquet.” Hiding your face behind the flowers, you take a whiff of the sweetness whilst you gaze behind you through your fluttering lashes. “I think you're swindeling me, cowboy.”
“Fine,” he dramatically sighs, earning a soft laugh from you. His viridescent eyes remind you of the clovers back home. “I'll give you a discount.”
“A kiss then?”
“I was goin' to say ‘three bucks’ but that works too.” His eyes are on the road, but he briefly gazes into yours with tenderness.
“I'll pay my dues then.” You crane your neck back as far as you can. With a hand running up behind his head, you push him gently to meet with your own for a quick peck. “There, all paid.”
Hobie grins, trying hard not to indulge more lest he crashes Bucky into a tree. “Nah, that was half.”
“Half?” You feign a scoff. “Fine, I'll give it to you in installments.” Your neck is starting to ache from the position, but you can't help but keep still when he even looks this good in this awkward angle.
Bucky slows down, you hear the rush of a body of water before you see it. Hobie clicks his tongue, Buck completely stops from the command. “I'll take it.”
“You're not gonna ask when I'll ‘pay’ you?”
Hobie places his hand around your throat, not clenching, nor digging in; no, he does it to gently straighten your neck to save you from a crick in your nape. You follow willingly, never have you felt this soft kind of grasp around your neck— it's been the opposite before this, before him.
The pads of Hobie's fingers rub along your nape, soothing the growing ache. “Surprise me.”
Your smile grows when you quickly look forward, you see a small dock in a shining lake that's surrounded by oak trees and cattails growing on the side. The water shimmers under the afterglow like diamonds laid upon silk.
Hobie raises his brows with a smile, you're sure he's patting himself on the back. He smoothly gets off his horse with a flourish. With his feet back on the ground, he holds your waist, waiting for you to push yourself off so he could help you down. As if you ever need it, but you sometimes like to be spoiled this way, especially if It's Hobie spoiling you with his affections.
You hold the bouquet against your chest while he looks up at you lovingly, not telling you to hurry up or attempt to yank you off. “They told me that you're so mashed. What does that even mean?”
“Who's they?”
“The band, they said and I quote, ‘that Hobie is properly mashed for you! We've never seen him look at someone like that unless—’” You pause, hands on his wrist, pushing yourself off as he guides you down on the ground carefully. You floated for a moment, you then tuck the flowers in Bucky's saddle bag for safe keeping.
“Unless what?”
You bite your lip to tamp down a laugh. “‘Unless you're one of Riri’s homemade chocolate cakes.’” Poking his chest, you playfully jab him while he has his hands up in mock surrender. “I knew you wanted that cake!”
“It was yours! And I've had it a thousand times before, love.” He grabs your wrists, stopping your poking to pull your hand over his neck so you'd hold him closer. Toe to toe, you close the gap even more by scooching closer.
You poke him with your chin on his clavicle. “And here I thought you were being nice.”
“I was,” Hobie utters against your lips, “don't worry, I ordered one for myself while you were playing on stage.”
You gasp in feigned offense. “You dare?!”
Nodding, Hobie pulls you closer by your wrist. “I dare.” He mocks teasingly.
“Guess I have to jump in the lake to let the waters wash away this betrayal.” Moving away, you walk backwards towards the dock while keeping an eye at him.
Hobie watches you go. The second he steps forward, you sprint away, giggling. Milkweeds and poppies brush along your legs as you run while stripping off your boots and jacket, you then throw it all behind you. The fabric hits Hobie's face, he hears a splash as he yanks it off, laughing with you. Stripping off his coat, belt and boots, he jumps in right after with a louder and bigger splash.
The water is colder than you expected when it hit your skin. But you suppose it's worth staying for a little while even if it means getting a cold. You wipe your face from the splash that hit you, shivering slightly and incredibly happy without a care for the rest of the world.
“Hobie?” You twist around, swimming in a circle to look for him.
Hobie doesn't resurface after his jump, your grin slowly turns into panic when you see bubbles rise up from where he jumped.
“Hobie!” You feel bile rise in your throat, panic and worry settling in your stomach. “Hob—!” You're suddenly lifted up, thighs perched on his shoulder with his head in between. “You ass—!” You see him give you a smirk before tossing you behind with a splash.
He once again lifts you up, by your waist this time. He's met with a glare from you, and he has the audacity to laugh at your face. You splash, wiggling and thrashing in his hold. “‘m sorry! I saw the opportunity!”
“Not funny! I thought you drowned!” Continuing to splash at his face, Hobie embraces you against his chest until you've tired yourself out. You manage to give him one last splash to his face before you gave up, and then you slouch against him.
“Good thing I taught you how to swim, huh?” He softly says, floating around the lake.
“Yeah,” you hide behind the crook of his neck, nose nudging his skin while you try to forget how your aunt reacted when you came home drenched and dripping on her carpets.
“You okay?” Hobie rubs in between your shoulders. “‘m sorry, I thought it was funny.”
You sniff from the cold, leaning away to meet with his eyes. “It was, just don't take too long to resurface.” Smiling, you wipe water droplets off his pierced eyebrow. “Remember the day you convinced me to let you teach me how to swim?”
“Yeah, I told you that you wouldn't be able to swim if the ship you're on capsizes.”
“It scared the shit out of me.”
“‘m sorry that scared you.”
“Stop apologizing,” you cup his jaw, feeling his stubble, “besides, we ended up here years later. It's a good ending.”
“Yeah, a good ending.” He fixes your blouse, laying the collar flat so the edge doesn't poke your eye out. Noticing your far off stare behind him, he imagines the worst. But when he turns, he sees a huge deer with large antlers drinking from the side of the lake. “Holy shit.” Hobie moves, but you stop him so he doesn't startle the deer.
It continues to drink calmly. A bush from the side shakes, Hobie almost went for his gun but he's proven wrong when a white tailed doe appears.
“She's gorgeous,” you whisper, hugging him from behind while you watch the doe drink next to the deer. “Do you think they know each other?”
“Maybe.” He doesn't believe his eyes, “maybe they're mates.”
You kiss his cold cheek. “You think so?”
With your hands intertwined with his own underwater, he pulls you closer until there's no space left in between. He once dreamed to be this close to you, now that he's skin to flesh with you, he will never let go. He'd rather be buried alive again rather than be apart with you.
The deer nudges the doe's head before they gallop away from the lake. Hobie sniffs, finger brushing along your ring. “Yeah, they are.”
—
The sun has fully set now, dark blue engulfing you with the night howling its cold breeze against your wet skin. The large oak tree behind you shields you from the harsh wind. It reminds you of the one back home where he carved both of your initials on the trunk. Hobie embraces you from behind, sharing his warmth while you two wait for the clothes on your back to dry before riding home. Bucky sleeps next to you, huffing in his sleep. The bonfire roars, warming you in its orange glow, flames dancing in your vision.
Hobie hasn't taken his fingers off your ring that he rolls around your finger since you sat down. His eyes stare at the fire, shoulders relaxed, yet his jaw is clenched. You think his body is acting on instinct, and is still getting used to the calm.
“You're quiet, I'm worried.” You say, head leaning on his chest, back slouched to look at him.
Hobie raises a brow, eyes glancing down at you before returning back to the fire. “‘m thinkin’.”
“That's a first,” you joke, squeezing his hand. He chuckles, pecking the top of your head once before sighing in your hair. “Okay, now I'm worried. What's wrong?”
“I was thinkin' that we're practically married.” Something flashes behind your eyes that he missed. “We've got the rings, the house, the love and everythin' else.” He can't let Miguel get to him, but he can't get his words out of his mind either. If that's not marriage, I don't know what is.
You give him a soft shaky smile, eyes glossy against the light of the bonfire. Cradling his face, he leans against your palm, placing a heavy kiss on your cool skin. A sob threatens to escape you, clawing at your chest to be let go. You don't let it.
“We kind of are, huh?” He asks, eyes closed while holding your hand against his lips.
“I–it's close.” You manage to choke out. “I suppose we are, Hobs.” Tears collect in your lashes, blurring him in your vision like water colours bleeding in together. “Are you afraid of it?” Of us? You fear waking up one day and finding his side of the bed empty except for a note addressed to you. It's irrational, you know it is.
“No,” he sniffs, “it's the opposite. My fear isn't anywhere near that.”
You blink to clear the tears, letting it fall without a sound. “What are you most afraid of, cowboy?”
Hobie opens his eyes and you're met with a sea of green, shining and glittering just like the lake near you. “You, you're what I'm most afraid of.” You turn to fully face him, body placed in between his legs that comfortably cage you in. You don't let him go even when he burrows his chin on the top of his chest. For a moment, he doesn't say a word, until he sniffs and returns to meet with your eyes. “Losin’ you, seein’ your blood stainin’ my hands.” He holds both of your hands in his own. “That's what I'm afraid of, not my own death, yours. Because I can't live another five years without you. Especially a life lived without you isn't a life well lived.”
You feel his love and all the ache he carried in those five years like never before. He doesn't want to lose the life he built with you here; he doesn't want to lose all the mornings with you, he doesn't want to sleep without you by his side. He doesn't want to lose you.
You never even thought for a moment that you deserve this kind of tenderness after all the hatred that was thrown at you like a hail of firestorm. And yet, here he is, he loves you, the kind of love that reverberates through your very bones and settles into your soul. You still don't think you deserve it, but who are you to deny such love, especially from him? You did not beg for this kind of love, nor prayed for it. It's not the kind of love that the fates or the universe have thrust upon you in a shower of meteors. It was gradual, it came in a trickle and then a wave. And when you two were finally on the same page— you love him with every single bone in your body— you love him intentionally and wholeheartedly.
Kneeling to level with him, hands holding his cheeks, you hope that your simple touch is enough to let him feel all the love and affection you have for the man before you.
With your forehead against his own, you softly utter the same three words you've been telling him every morning and and every night before bed. “I love you.” He nods, whispering the same words atop your lips like a mantra; a song that replays in his head over and over again. You kiss the corner of his lips before leaning away. “I–if that ever happens, I'll live for you. I'll bring back my blood inside me if I have to.” You wipe away his stray tear, “Just promise me you'll do the same.” You know that you won't be able to do anything if it does happen to you, nor he, if it happens to him. They're empty promises meant to fill the holes in your chests for comfort to hold onto— to help ease your minds throughout the night whilst he lays his head upon your chest at night.
The weight of the looming threat feels like a reality. As if someone laid a pillow to his sleeping face. Hobie takes you in his arms, embracing you; hand placed on the back of your head as if he's already trying to shield you from what he fears most.
The mere thought of you loving him so much that you'd defy death itself, and despite the blood underneath his nails has him tethering upon the precipice of paradise. Maybe that's all there is then, to be loved despite the blood staining his hands, and despite his gnashing teeth that could take your flesh if he so desires; that he'll never desire to do to you— It's enough for him to be with you, and for you to be with him until you're both old and frail, until you're both six feet under; behind the same house he made into a home for you.
He has everything to lose, and he'll raise hell itself if need be just to bring you back. *When they come for you, there won't be enough bullets in the world for him.
With determination in his eyes that fans the flames in his chest, he utters an impossible promise on your skin.
“I promise.”
You hug Hobie, hand splayed on his back while the other kneads at his nape. Opening your eyes, you see the same deer and doe on the other side of the lake, standing side by side peacefully with their reflections on the lake. The sounds of the night echo above the glimmering depths of the water. It all brings you hope despite the conversation, they won't find you, that's your hope. You get to stay here forever with him, that's your only wish in this world.
Amidst the swaying grass, and in his arms, you feel infinite. You finally feel like you exist with the gentle wind and the raging rivers. No more do you feel like you burn everyday, where there's ash in your mouth, embers hidden underneath your hands; living in a house built to be kindling in your all consuming flames of loneliness. Earthbound once more, alive again.
GIRLLL so sorry for disappearing for a month but im back with my yapping😜😜 now that im free im using my time reading fics (specifically urs🫣)
starting this with comfort i see aaw they take care of eachother like they the only ppl left in the world
his name still makes me laugh like LARRY SMITH?!! LMAO
"You're situated in the middle of nowhere." finally the title!!
was he seriously gonna sniff us to check if we stank?😭 and then getting offended bc we stopped him? i love him hes so random and sassy
LOL visitor saw everything
WAIT RIRI OMGG there she is my girl
so cutee hobie talks bout her when drunk🥹
i loveee hobie and riri's dynamic litetally besties
noww they're both dirty, but happy!! i hope the next angst hit wont be so soon (hopefully there wont be a next one)
i thought it couldnt get any better till they found the doggy ANDD adopted her, with a cute name (so glad R chose it and not Hobie LMFAOO im joking)
"It's your very own borrowed heaven." i see what ur doing here katy
oh he KNOWSS hes handsome
you always manage to describe the settings and surroundings so well its romantic
ohh i felt something was going with cherry and buckyy (he indeed did not waste any time)
LMFAOOO i knew riri would say that
im veryyy curious about this roberto, Hobie keeps on hiding his past😣😣
MIGUEL??? WHERE U COME FROM
ahh theyre finally getting that bath!!
hobie's a big asshole tho i also thought he drowned or something
this kinda reminds me of bdas!! when Hobie teached R how to swim (i think it was that? my memory's not the best)
ughhh he really missed her im going to cry very soon
we finished this beautiful chapter with some well earned fluff!! this ended so good but i feel like next one wont be so cute😭😭
just let me imagine it all finishes like that, both of them warm from the bonfire and the cuddling with eachother, in the middle of nowhere. just that and nothinggg else😔 my heart cant handle it
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, Cowboy AU, Wild west AU, CW hallucinations, TW poisoned without your knowledge, CW violence, religious talk, CW guns, TW abuse mention, CW food mention, CW panic attack, CW injury, TW death, TW blood and gore.
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CHAPTER 7 >>> CHAPTER 8
Skinned knees, scarred hands, and venomous words, you've endured it all back home. Survived it all— his tight, firm grip on your hand that only loosened around guests, finger always running along the gold band on your finger, a reminder of your hatred, a different reminder for him. Then your aunt's yelling in your ears until you could only hear her thunderous words at night even when you're alone. Her pen that does more than sign documents, the sharp end pointed directly on your palm, stabbing and cutting along your life line as if it could end your life right then and there— sometimes you wish it could. Then him, your uncle who had his hand in cutting your ties with the man you love, whose echoing footsteps walk outside your door at night, never giving you reprieve from the pain of being awake in that mausoleum of a home. All that pain, all that abuse you've suffered from your so-called kin doesn't compare to seeing Hobie's limp body under the monstrous weight of steel and ash.
Your heart has stayed inside your stomach since then, his green eyes closed, breathing shallow than the well that your uncle threatened to push you inside— you won't drown in it, you'll just crack your neck and your spine while you lay in tepid dirty water. You feel like that now, hopeless, blank eyes staring at the sky, seeing the world pass by from inside the well.
You've never left his side, feeling as if you'd regret it if you did even for a moment. You've regretted a lot of things, letting your parents go on that doomed expedition, and letting your aunt dictate the rest of your life. Never again. So you don't leave, you don't drink, you don't eat while the stranger who helped carry Hobie into the shabby inn treats him.
Your own wounds ache, festering under the heat of the southern sun. The humidity is clinging to your skin, making it all worse, making the pathetic bandage around your ear throb from the pain, tethering from infection. The walls of the small room they've put you in is suffocating, walls that feel like it's closing you in, dark hardwood that sweats from the sheer heat, and floorboards that creak and squeak from your footsteps. But you'd rather stay upstairs than what's below you. It smells there, especially when the day runs hotter than the surface of a boiling pot. It's probably because the whole building is old and moldy. Or there's something dead hiding underneath the rotten bloated wood.
The alligators outside your window hiss and groan, birds you've never seen before get eaten the moment they step foot inside the marsh. It's not fair, you think, for they only wanted to eat yet they ended up getting eaten themselves.
The night gives your nerves a break, the cooler air breezing through your injuries, taking the pain away for only a moment. Fireflies gather outside the willow tree that you've been staring at since you've arrived. Hobie sleeps under it all, from all the noise and the heat. You've held his hand the entire time, even with the bandages around your palms you could still feel him, feel his pulse, feel how he still breathes. Your eyes are dry and red, tears gone from how much you've cried on his bedside, and pleaded to the man to save him whatever it takes. The rickety armchair that has one leg missing has been your home, the room is your land, and Hobie has been your reason to stay.
You held his hand in yours, watching as his eyelids moved about, a sign that he still lives and thinks despite the trauma to the head he endured when the train crashed. The bandage around his head has turned red from his wound. He protected you, did everything to shield you from death. You'd cry if you still had any tears left to give.
Dawn has arrived, and you hear a knock at the door. It's quiet, almost silent as if the sound would disturb Hobie's slumber.
“Come in,” your voice is still hoarse from the noose that wrapped around your neck. It's small, barely there, barely having the resemblance of your former self.
With a creak, the door opens, and a familiar face pops out. “Just checkin’ on ya.” His southern drawl is thick, shaven face illuminated by the lamp he holds. “I need to change his bandages. And yours if you'd permit me.” Entering the room, he shakes his leather bound bag with the initials ‘T.M.’ embossed on it. The metal and glass inside clinks against each other.
You watch him carry himself with confidence, but with apprehension from his gait. “Do him first.” Moving the chair aside, you still don't fully leave Hobie.
“Alright,” his friendly eyes look at you with uncertainty. Kneeling down next to the bed, he examines Hobie's head, gently unspooling the cloth. That's the only time you look away, refusing to see him that way or it might wiggle its way into your dreams. “I’ve realized that I haven't asked for your name, miss.” You hear his bag unzipping while you stare at the outside world blanketed in deep blue. “Not your fault though, Holden brought you in haste.”
“Holden?” You ask, eyes scanning along the marsh.
“That's the big brooding man that carried him in. My name's Thomas, by the way, what's yours?” The smell of putrid ointment hits your nose, you refuse to cover the smell.
You give him a fake name, a name that isn't known to many, a name that isn't plastered in every bounty board across the country. “It's Clementine.”
“What a pretty name, I'd shake your hand but 'm occupied right now.” He chuckles, and you hold your breath while he continues to treat Hobie. After minutes of silence, you hear the rustle of fabric as he closes the bandages around his head.
You turn to look, the sight of Hobie just laying there is sobering. You've always known him as a strong person, always burying his heels in, independent in all the ways, and speaking his mind when he needs to be. The opposite of you, but right now, you have to be the one that's strong enough for him, to fight, care, and protect him if need be while he recovers. You don't know if you can do it, but it comes easily to you because it's Hobie, you've already done so a lifetime ago. You inhale deeply, finally meeting Thomas’ brown eyes.
“Thank you, for helping, you don't know us but you still helped. I promise I'm going to pay you back for the room and…” you look at the room that still bares Hobie's blood all over the floor, and his things thrown in the corner. “And everything else.”
“No, need.” Thomas smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Crow's feet evident in his smile. “Just seein’ him get better slowly is enough for me.” You give him a weak but genuine smile. “Your turn, miss?”
“I'm fine.”
“I've been a doctor for twenty years, and you're clearly not fine. Especially that ear of yours. I've seen better ears from pigs in line for the slaughter.”
You glance at Hobie's sleeping face, finally relenting. “Okay.”
“I'll try to be quick, I promise.” You scooch your chair closer, immediately holding Hobie's hand like his skin is magnetized. “I don't want to ask but, this injury doesn't look like it came from the train derailing.” He starts to peel off the shoddy bandage that you hastily put on, your skin feels like on fire. You don't mind it anymore, you've felt worse.
You sniff, eyes glued onto the gold ring dangling from Hobie's neck. “A piece of metal from the train nicked it.”
“And your hands?” He nods at your burned palms hidden under cloth.
“Heat from the metal when I tossed it off him.” A half lie.
“Ah,” Thomas cleans your wound with the same putrid ointment. He tugs at your raw skin, you bite your tongue on instinct. “Maybe I shouldn't ask about your neck then.” The angry mark left by the lasso still stays, you know it'll stay there forever. If not, then in your mind.
You look back at the stranger, eyes pointed and daring. “Don't ask.”
There's new cloth around your ear, muffling the sounds made by the house. “Then I won't.” He seizes his movements, eyeing your hand around Hobie's. “May I treat your hands?”
“It's fine, mister Thomas.”
“It's doctor, actually,” there's amusement in his eyes. “I’ve got a license and everythin’. You should see it, it's very professional lookin’.”
You crack a smile, “sorry, doctor.” With slight apprehension, you slide your hands away from Hobie's before laying your palms on your lap. “Do you own this place?”
“I do, sort of.” He unwraps your hands, revealing the angry skin underneath. Sucking in his teeth, you already know it's healing badly. But he still tries, for that you owe him everything.
“Sort of?”
“It's my sisters’ you see, they went on this business trip to get more funds for the place so they asked me to look after it for a few weeks.”
“I'm guessing that you had to leave your practice.” You flick your eyes over to Hobie's rising and falling chest to check on him. Satisfied, you look back at the doctor handling you with care. “That must've been horrible.”
“Havin’ sisters?” He jokes.
“No, leaving it all behind.”
His smile falters. “Don't cry crocodile tears for me, miss, I'll be back there treating the sick in no time.” His head tilts curiously at the old scar on your palm, ghosting his thumb over it. “What happened to this one?”
You want to say that it was because of her, that she did it. But this is one of the rare times that it wasn't her fault. Yet, when it was, she's good at hiding the evidence. Your aunt wasn't an idiot, she knew how to turn a girl into her personal workhorse that you whip and punch to obey without leaving any marks, without showing the world and causing them any concern for your well-being. So you tell the halfhearted truth.
“It was a long time ago, there's no cause for concern on that one.” It healed, a remembrance, telling you that everything will heal if you give it time— that Hobie will heal. You meet his eyes, finding it hard to read the old man. “How about Holden and the others I saw? I didn't get a good look at them when I entered but I saw a few guests. Are they guests?” You question him because that's what Hobie would do.
“Holden lives nearby who just happens upon the train wreck. He has a small stable in town, in Saint Denis. If you want he can take in your horses? They're mighty fine, I don't want them getting soiled by the marsh.”
“That…” you think for a second. If the horses are gone then you'd lose your only way out. Hobie would say no. “No, thank you, I'll take care of them.”
“You sure? Fine by me, there's hay inside the stable for ‘em.”
“The others? You were talking about them.” You continue to push the subject.
“Ah yes, sorry ‘bout that, old mind and all. Well, there's Eli, he's been stayin’ with us for quite a while. A priest on a mission we call him.” You listen intently, taking note of every single detail. “Then there's Lucy, she's a regular ‘ere, always comin' and goin'. Accordin’ to my sisters.”
You nod as he finishes your hands that's now tightly wrapped with bandages. Thomas begins to stand up, gathering his things. “Will he be okay?” Will he wake up?
He sighs, there's something behind his eyes that you can't quite pinpoint. “It’s hard to tell.” Your heart hammers inside your ribcage. “But he has so far survived the night, I think he'll pull through.”
“Thank you, again. I'll repay you, I promise.” You reach for Hobie's hand, letting your warmth seep through his clammy hands.
Thomas' eyes flick between your hand and eyes. “Don't mention it. I'll bring a basin with drinking water for him. Drip water onto his lips every few hours so he won't dehydrate.”
You nod in understanding. “I will, thank you ”
“Then some food and water for you.” He smiles, opening the door and looking over his shoulder to glance at you.
“No need—”
“How would you care for him when you don't take care of yourself? You need the energy. What would he say?”
You chuckle, squeezing his hand tighter. “He’d call me a wanker for not eating.”
Thomas knits his brows, turning back towards you. “A what?”
“Nothing, it's something profane.”
He chortles, wiping his hand across his nose like he smelled something foul. And you smell it too— the sourness, the moment he opened the door. Maybe a rat died under the staircase. “I won't ask then. Get some rest, miss Clementine.”
The door clicks and you're once again alone with him. It hits you again, how dire your situation is. There's a rock in the back of your mind that keeps rolling about, reminding you how close Hobie was from dying in your arms. But there's another boulder in the pit of your stomach, it tells you of a fate that could befall you now that you're here, close to the person looking for you. You'd rather jump towards the alligators than be back in their hold.
Hobie will wake up, you know he will. For now, you'd stay by his side, play the good nurse and protect him as much as you can because he would do it if the roles were reversed. You hold his ring in between your fingers, letting the cold metal melt into your warm skin.
—
You whisper to him, words that you're afraid of letting go, words that you wish would wake him up. You wonder what he dreams of, is it home? Is it something good? Or is he dreaming of you? You'll ask him when he wakes up, he'll wake up, you know he will.
There's another knock at the door a few hours later. Thomas enters with a tray that smells of something savoury, you've forgotten how hungry you are. But how could you indulge when Hobie lays there like a statue?
“I have some duck for ya, and a loaf. It's not much but it'll fill you up.” He senses your trepidation. “Please eat, you'll get weaker if you don't. ‘sides, no one will take care of him if you fall ill.” The utensils rattles as he places the tray in your hands.
You stare at the food with a blank stare. Guilt eats you alive, grief devouring what's left of you. “C-can you…” you clear your dry throat, “can you check on him? See if his breathing is alright?”
Thomas nods curtly after a moment, placing his fingers above his pulse, timing it on a watch that dangles from his waist coat. You don't touch the warm food until he's done. “His breathin’s fine, he's a fighter.”
You finally feel like you can exhale again. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” standing up, Thomas points at the bowl filled with water where a cloth floats atop it. “That's for him, from what we talked about.”
“I remember.” You're already squeezing the cloth, releasing excess water before you place the tray on his bedside to slowly let the water drip on Hobie's dry lips. With every drop, you pray to whoever is listening to will him awake.
“I'll leave you to it,” the door closes, and you're once again left in your dark thoughts where your fears have come true.
In between eating and playing nurse, your eyes start to get heavy with every bite of the succulent meat. You couldn't help but finish it to the bone, letting it fill your belly, leaving half of the loaf for Hobie when he wakes up. After chugging a whole pitcher of water and emptying Hobie's bowl by slowly but surely letting him drink, you place the tray down on the ground to lay down next to him carefully. There's a headache forming in-between your eyes, maybe you're incredibly fatigued than you thought you were. You're mindful of his injuries but not your own as you lay on your injured ear. It's self flagellation, as if everything that has happened was your fault the moment you stepped foot in the new world. As your eyes get uncomfortably heavy, mind foggy, you fall asleep curled up on his side.
You open your eyes and you're back home. The gilded walls of your room open up to you like a theater curtain. Your chest heaves, eyes filled with tears that you refuse to let go. Chiffon and velvet dress hugging you tightly, too tight, suffocating you slowly like a hand on your throat. Hand upon your chest, you rip it all off as if the garment burns you. But it isn't enough to get rid of it all, so you walk over to your table in haste, grabbing a sharp letter opener to slash and tear at the threads putting it all together. One by one, the once pretty gown is torn to shreds at your feet, from bodice to skirt, it all lays on the ground like discarded meat. In a flash, your eyes see red and bloodied muscle still writhing on the floor instead of fabric. As soon as it appears, it's gone after a beat.
You stand there in your slip, but the heaviness in your chest persists, hands and legs going numb— a testament to your shallow breathing. Your hands glide along your body to find anything tight around you, gasping and still in a panic, your hands stop around your neck that holds a string of diamonds. Without a second thought, you snatch the shiny thing away from your clammy skin, breaking the chain in the process.
Air enters your lungs the moment it's gone. Palms above your chest, you inhale and exhale whilst hot tears flow out of your eyes in a shower of sorrow. Leaning over the table for balance, your eyes meet with a familiar handwriting addressed to you. You're brought back in time the second your hand touches it, brought back to five years ago when Hobie slipped you a note during a party. You read it again, telling you that everything was ready, that he's ready to run away with you, somewhere far away and that you should pack your things.
After you read it, the letter dissolves into dark ink that drips down to your feet. You're holding the new letter again, opening the plain wax seal, you read the contents. Then you read it over and over until you get your mind wrapped around the saccharine yet sorrowful words that are all written in his hand. Hobie, the one you've been mourning since the news hit you.
His address is written hastily next to his own name, you laugh and then sob, hugging the letter to your chest. The scene shifts as if you've entered the fog and into a new world. You're in front of the docks, a large ship looming over you. You're dressed in a pair of borrowed trousers from Peter's wife, whilst the older man himself speaks by your side but you can't make out his words. It's all a garbled mess. For some reason, his hands are dripping with blood, but you don't point it out.
You tell him something, and he shakes his head with a smile, eyepatch moving as he gently nudges you towards the ship. The night hides his face, and all the secrets haunting you, even with the full moon shining down. As you wave goodbye, the ship unfurls its sails, sailors reeling the anchor up, and the captain steering the ship towards your future. You watch as Peter's silhouette gets farther until he's a mere dot in your sight.
You raise your head up to watch the swirling sky, falling stars raining down, and the moon smiling back at you. Someone whispers your name, and you instinctively turn around, expecting a fate worse than death thinking that they've found you. But you're greeted by Hobie himself, still in the same clothes you last saw him in, hair short, and face flat.
“Hobie?” You sound like you're underneath the waves.
“Run.”
You're awoken by the squeak from the rotten hinges. Sitting up, your eyes adjust to the light, seeing a silhouette of a tall, bony man in black and white. Vision focusing, you see him awkwardly stop in front of the doorway, the white square on his collar tells you that this is the reverend Thomas was talking about. He has a patch work of a beard and an aura of weariness.
“Eli,” your mouth speaks before you could think.
“That's me,” he chuckles, clearing his throat right after. His hands are behind his back, prompting you to be more wary of the man.
“What are you doing here?” You sit properly, hand placed on your gun belt, feeling the cold metal of Hobie's gun on your palm.
“I–I was…” his blue eyes flick from your gun to Hobie's sleeping face. “Thinking of p-praying for him.”
“He’s not dead yet, reverend.” Your harsh voice cuts through the man.
“I don't mean any offense.” He holds his empty hands up, you glance at his rough hands and the tattoo on his wrist revealed from how his sleeve rode down. It's something you can't quite get a good look at. Noticing your stare, Eli brings his hands down, pulling down his sleeves. “Praying for his swift recovery. That's what I meant.”
“You can pray for him outside our door. Better yet, pray downstairs.” You stare him down. “Where's your book of prayers?”
“I'm sorry, I should've knocked.” You can't place his accent. “I thought you were asleep—”
“And that makes it alright to barge in?”
He balances on the balls of his feet, your eyes instinctively flick over to his leather shoes that are too shiny, too kept as if he just bought it or cleaned it for the occasion. “We got off on the wrong foot, I'm sorry, miss…Clementine. My name's Eli.” Reaching for you, you only look at his hand without shaking it.
“I didn't give you my name.”
The reverend takes his hand back with a wince. “I–I got it from Thomas.” Your jaw tightens, eyes boring holes into his forehead. Thankfully, he reads the room and your expression. “I should go—”
“You should. Goodbye.”
The reverend doesn't turn his back on you, opening the door with what you could read as a cursory apologetic look. “I'm sorry, again.”
You grunt in reply. With the door clicking close, you stand up, taking a spare chair that Thomas always sits down on to lodge it under the doorknob. Locking the door and battening down the hatches. It's what Hobie would do, it's what he always does when he thinks you've fallen asleep.
“Wanker.” You scoff out before sitting back down next to Hobie. You don't find sleep after that. Your mind is too noisy, too chaotic to find sleep even though your body demands it.
—
Two days in and Hobie is still unresponsive, he breathes, even twitches in his sleep but he's unable to wake up. It's pure torture for you, seeing him lay there while you try your best at taking care of him. You've even tasked yourself at watching the good doctor clean his wounds and replace the bandages so you could do it yourself. You miss his smile, his laugh, and how he holds your hand. It’s just like how you've felt for those five long years, but this time you can see him, touch him, and take care of him but he doesn't speak nor look back at you. You don't know which one is worse.
Thomas says he's getting better, but you still worry. You play his nurse and a grieving widow at the same time. Everytime Hobie's breath hitches or even when his finger twitches you sit up, frantically calling the doctor to check on him. He always says the same thing, ‘he’s just dreaming,’ it doesn't fill you at ease, especially if it's anywhere near the dreams you've been having.
Three meals are brought to you every day, and each meal has brought you to sleep. You blame the trauma you've experienced, the things you've seen, the things you've done— it brings you towards the precipice of life and death each time, and without fail, you dream of him. Hobie still sleeps on the lumpy bed, body lay still, breathing sturdy and true. You don't mind the sleep, but the dreams you've had aren't always good, so you'd rather keep your eyes open than face the horrors that sleep brings.
Sometimes your mind wanders off, vision whirling to something else, something worse than him laying unresponsive to the world outside. In the corner of the dark room, you see a bloodied fountain pen with soiled grain littered around it. You turn around to look away, and you see something worse, his pristine white suit is a glaring contrast to the almost dilapidated state of the room, acting like a beacon of pain for you. He doesn't smile, nor come closer to you, he just stands there, back straight like he owns the place, light green eyes aglow like the fireflies outside but none of the comfort.
The blood in your veins runs cold at the sight, so you turn away from him as he stands guard with his judging eyes. Your eyes land towards Hobie to calm you down and bring yourself back to reality. He still sleeps, bandages wrapped around his head, eyelids twitching while he dreams. With a sigh, you suddenly see a pair of eyes under his bed, you're frozen at the sight of a large hand appearing from underneath, nails dark and rotten, wounds littered around the arm, decaying and sour smelling. You see it give you a crooked smile. Heart thrumming, the hand grabs Hobie's wrist, blackened blood oozing from its touch. With horror in your belly but bravery in your heart, you yank the hand away, finding it bursting into a cloud of smoke the moment you touched it.
“You alright?” Thomas asks, he watches you catch your breath from the doorway.
Your hand is closed around nothing, still held up in front of you, gasping at nothingness. You inhale, clearing your throat and bringing down your trembling hand to your lap. “Y-yeah, I think I'm just too hot.”
Thomas nods, eyes roaming around the room. “You've been cooped up in this room for two days. I think some fresh air would do you some good.”
You immediately shake your head. “I can't leave him. Besides, there's a window here, I get enough air as it is.”
“Pardon my bluntness but, you need to stretch around, get a different scenery or you'll go mad seeing the same walls.” Thomas crosses the gap, tentatively placing his hand on your shoulder. His palm hovers slightly above your blouse, not truly holding you. “I can watch him for you, the worst has come to pass already. I know he'll wake up eventually.”
You glance at Hobie's face, he does look better than before. There's color on his lips again, his breathing stable, skin no longer clammy and his wounds are starting to scab over. And the horses need your attention too, you have no idea how they're faring since they got here. You ponder leaving him for a moment.
“...okay, j-just for a few minutes.” But you still don't trust Thomas enough to leave Hobie alone with him. “You don't have to watch him.”
“Alright, I understand where you're comin' from. Hell, I'll give you the key to the room if it makes you feel any better.” Thomas takes out a ring of keys from his pocket, and then he takes out an old key from the metal ring to hand to you. “Just bring it back after.”
“Alright, thank you, that actually fills me with ease.” You close your fingers around the key, letting the metal press down into your burned palms.
“I'll be downstairs. I promise if I hear anythin’, even a squeak I'll come runnin’ out to get you.” Thomas smiles, back already turned to leave.
Your voice calls him back. “Doctor, you've seen death, do you think there's an afterlife?” You suddenly ask him, Thomas stops in his tracks, chuckling softly.
“I don't know, love.” You raise a brow, head turning immediately to face him. “I think it's best if you ask the reverend that. I'm sure he can provide you with an answer.”
“But you've seen people die, right? From your patients, to just…living. I want your opinion on the matter.” You push the subject, eyes heavy and tired. You can feel every bone in your body as your vision shifts, seeing iridescent light pass through the windows and shine in Thomas' face. When your eyes focus, the light is gone.
Thomas scratches his head. “From what I experienced?” You nod, “I don't think so. I think there's just darkness right after.” He sniffs, hands placed in his pockets. “I really think you should talk to the reverend, he might provide a more comforting answer.”
“Maybe I should.” Your voice drifts off, eyes blankly staring outside.
“You sure you're alright?”
“I don't know.” You don't see how red your eyes have become, or the bags weighing it down.
Thomas leaves without another word. You don't leave the room after that, and the key stays with you to hold onto, letting the metal dig into your palms.
—
Startling awake, you sit up from the whispers that have managed to slither its way inside your ears. You look over your side, seeing Hobie asleep and safe, you begin to sit up, head pounding roughly against your skull as if you've been hit by something in your sleep.
More whispers echo out into the darkness, your eyes wander around the room, finding no one so you listen closely. You glance at the floor, ears straining to hear, you realize the voices are coming out from beneath.
Slowly clambering away from the bed, hand reluctantly releasing Hobie's hand, you make your way onto the floor, laying yourself down on the cool wood. Pressing your ears, you listen in on the murmured conversation.
“She barely sleeps!” A woman's voice exclaims, it's followed by shushing. “It doesn't even work on her. I'm at my fuckin’ limit.”
“We need to be patient—” Someone says.
You press your face down closer to hear better. “We've been patient. We need to—” the floorboards creak from your movement. And they immediately quiet down.
You lay there perfectly still, but no sound from downstairs can be heard. Standing up, you check the doors if you've locked it properly this time, and you pat the gun on your hip to feel if it's still there. The unfounded trust that you've given to the strangers downstairs are wavering by the minute. But you can't leave, not until Hobie wakes up, or you might disturb his healing.
—
You gasp awake, trembling in your seat, the wounds on your palms have reopened from how your nails have dug into your broken palms. It's another nightmare, another nightmare that has kept you awake. Hobie still sleeps, and you're still trapped inside the small dusty room.
The heels of your palms rub roughly on your eyelids, washing away the nightmare and sleep. Laying your head on the back of the chair, you stair at the ceiling and the cracking paint. There's a dark red spot near the middle, it's barely noticeable but it's there. The longer you stare at it, the bigger it gets. You fight a sob as you abruptly stand up, maybe you should take Thomas on his offer by going outside. It doesn't hurt to leave for a few minutes, right? Surely no one is awake at the break of dawn, so Hobie is safe to be left for a moment. And he's comfortable with the window opened, letting the cool early morning breeze inside.
You sit down on his bedside, hands gently cupping his own. “I'll be back, alright? I just need to check on Buck and Cherry.” He doesn't answer. “Maybe they can tell me how they managed to find us. Or maybe what you told me before was actually right, that they can smell us. Like loyal hounds we had back at the manor.” Your words drift away as your eyes lose focus, staring at the raised scar on his neck. You sniff, bringing yourself back to reality. “Please wake up, I feel like— just please wake up. Yell my name when you do and I'll come running back.” You kiss his knuckles, eyes glancing at the pair of white trousers standing in the corner. “I'll be back.”
You stand up, ignoring all the ghostly eyes staring at your back. They're not real, you whisper to yourself. Opening the door and locking it behind you before you could change your mind. The key is safely tucked away in your breast pocket. A headache rushes by, you almost fall on your knees from the pain.
As you stand shakily in the hallway, the floors seem to shift and change. It stretches before you while you walk, as if it won't allow you to escape the place. You close your eyes tightly, grounding yourself by holding onto the wall. When you open your eyes, you see your aunt standing at the end of the long hallway. She's clad in black, a long coat hiding her entire body, from her neck to the tips of her feet. Her hair is stark white against the dark material, strands that are longer than you last saw her. You can barely see her face, but it's odd, like something's amiss.
“Where are your eyes, dear aunt?” You ask in a small voice, as if you've returned to the young age you first met her.
She opens her maw, a deep dark crevice of sharp teeth all lined up in rows. You hear your name escape from her unhinged jaw, it's whispered close in your ears. “You can't leave.”
“I just did.” You say without remorse, and without guilt. “Watch me leave again.” With measured steps you walk closer to the vision, as you get closer and closer, her body turns transparent until you've walked through her. And everything returns to normal. You've reached the banisters overlooking downstairs, hand clasped tightly around the wood. Shaking, but victorious. “Not real.”
You look over the railing, eyes roaming around the small space. There's a small common room where a fireplace that doubles as the kitchen lies. A large man sleeps on the single couch facing the fireplace, snoring softly, arms crossed over his chest. A humble bar is placed across it, where amber liquid in foggy glass sits on the shelves. Leaning closer, you spot a door on the floor that could lead to a basement of some sort. The surfaces have been wiped clean except for the tops of the shelves that are caked in dust. There's minimal decorations, save for a few pictures hanging on the walls. Then it hits you, the smell of the place. From sour milk to rotten eggs, you can barely decipher what it is, only decay.
You can see the place being homely after a renovation if not for the stench.
The wooden bannister creaks when you put your weight on it, you flinch away before it gives out from under you. You walk slowly down the small steps of the stairway, legs shaking from the thrumming headache behind your eyes, feet swaying like you're drunk off of moonshine. You attribute it from the vision you saw and from how fatigued you are. But your shoes barely clack against the floor from your footsteps. Your eyes skim over the photographs on the walls, yellowed paper and old frames of family. You look for Thomas in any of the pictures, but he's absent in every single one.
You finally make it down without waking anyone. The man, Holden, you surmise based on the description Thomas gave you, still snores on the couch. Crossing the threshold, you unlock the front door to go outside.
The entire marsh is bathed in blue, sun barely peeking in the horizon. A breeze passes by, goosebumps rising on your arms from the cold. You should've brought your coat with you, but it's too late now. If you go back upstairs, you think you cannot go back down.
You already feel like you're coming back to your old self. Eyes still weighing heavy in its sockets but at least the air and the greenery have grounded you back to reality. You have no idea what has befallen you, why you've been having visions of your family. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation, or maybe the living has decided to haunt you for all the things you've done to survive.
Walking along the wooden paths that prop you up from the mud, you follow it further down towards the small stable. The birds are beginning to wake up, chirping just above the canopies of tall willow trees. With every footstep, your feet sink slightly into the mud, soil swallowing down the planks of wood laid down as a makeshift path. Flies buzz around your legs, you swat away any that comes near your healing wounds.
You finally make it towards the stable, opening the door with slight force since the hinges are long rotten from the wear and tear of the moist environment. You finally crack it open, seeing seven horses in their little pens on the side. The wood inside is in the same state as the inn, bloated and decaying from age. Light filters through the cracks, dust and bloatflies flying all over the horses.
Bucky peeks his head when he hears you enter, he immediately recognizes you, hind legs stomping in excitement. You smile genuinely at the dark horse, walking towards his stable, still swaying slightly on your feet. Cherry appears from behind Bucky, coat muddy and hair tangled. You guess that they had to share a pen because of the lack of space in the stable.
“Hi, you two.” You reach up towards their faces, Bucky nuzzles your hand while Cherry huffs against your palm. “I'm sorry, I should've visited you earlier. But Hobie needed my attention.” With the mention of his rider, Buckeye neighs, leaning away, almost standing up on two legs. You think that he worries for him. “It's alright, calm down, boy. He's getting better.”
Bucky shakes his head, so you scratch the back of his ear where he always seems to like. You coo at him, whispering kind words towards the horse for finding you and Hobie amidst the wreckage with Cherry in tow. You enter their pen, brushing your hands along his fur and hair. Hobie's canteen peeks from his saddlebag on Bucky, so you take it, taking big gulps before placing it back inside the pack. You feel a lot better already.
Cherry watches you and Bucky interact. When she's had enough of Bucky getting all of your attention, she nudges your shoulder, nodding and huffing like a petulant child. “Alright, alright, I didn't forget about you.” Chuckling, you rub along her snout, you find that she likes to be pet there the most. “Have you been good? I'd give you both an apple or sugarcube but I don't have any on me.” You spot the bundle of hay near the entrance. “Is hay good enough? When we get out of here I'll give you both all the sugar cubes and fruit you could ever want.”
Leaving their side after numerous pets, you grab a pitchfork laying on the corner to grab some hay to place in their pen. Once both horses are properly fed and petted, you look around the stable for a horse brush, but the only thing you could find were more horses looking at you with curious eyes. You're more confused though, you see five horses in each pen, but there are only four guests inside the inn that you know of. There's Thomas, Eli, and Holden that you've already met. Then there's the mysterious Lucy. Whose horse is it that is alone in the corner? Maybe it's a spare? Nevertheless, you feed all of them.
“I'll be back,” you fold your knees to grab a bucket on the floor. “Let me just get some water for—”
“You're speaking to horses.”
“Jesus!” You clutch your chest from the sudden intrusion.
“Just me, sorry.” A woman stands in the doorway, hands on her shiny belt buckle, red corset tight on her torso, revealing freckles dusted on her shoulders and clavicle. She smiles, showing a gold tooth in the bottom row of her teeth. The sun has now fully risen outside, bathing her back in light, shadows hiding her face from you. “I'm Lucy, you must be Clementine.”
You clear your throat before you almost made the mistake of correcting her. “Y-yeah. Nice to meet you.”
“Why are you doing manual labor? Aren't you injured?”
“I am, but I'm feeling a lot better now thanks to the doctor.”
“Thomas?”
“Yeah, is there another doctor here?”
She chuckles, stepping forward out of the shadows. You see her chiseled face, lips full and pretty, more freckles lined around her eyes and cheeks. Her blond hair is tied in a neat braid, cowboy hat perfectly fitted around her head. There's a hunting rifle strapped on her back, and a large ornate knife on her waist.
“I'll take care of the water. Breakfast is being served inside if you're hungry.” She says with a lilt in her tone. “There's sausage, the good kind. I think you'll like it.”
“You've got their water?” You ask, glancing at your horses.
“Yeah, I've got them.” She crosses the small distance towards you, you don't drop your guard even when her hand grabs the bucket away from you. “I've been the one looking after them.”
“Oh, thank you then. I hope they're not too much of a bother.”
“Not really. Especially your Arabian there, she's real pretty.” Lucy eyes Cherry like a piece of meat on the chopping block. “How much for her?”
“Excuse me?” You scoff. “She's not for sale.”
“Alright, understandable. How about the thoroughbred?”
“No,” you stand stiff, jaw clenched. “They're not for sale.”
She grins slowly, brown eyes flat and staring at your soul. Shrugging, she begins to walk outside. “Eh, it's worth the try. Your loss, I would've bought them at a mark up.” Her voice fades away as she leaves.
You stand there with your fists shaking, you're perturbed by the people residing in the inn. You think Thomas and Holden are the only decent ones inside.
Cherry neighs behind you, you look over your shoulder to meet with her eyes. “The nerve of some people, huh?” Buckeye agrees by trotting in place.
Walking back towards the inn already has you sweating from the humidity. Once you open the door, all eyes are on you. Thomas stands behind the bar, preparing a plate. While Holden eats on one of the empty bar stools with a cup of steaming coffee paused on his lips as he stares at you. The reverend was just about leaving the basement when you entered, hand frozen on the handle of the basement door.
The doctor breaks the awkward silence. “Good morning. Did ya have a nice walk outside?”
You flex your hands on your sides, biting the inside of your cheek. “It was…pleasant.”
Eli casually stands up and then sits on the sofa near the fire and the cooking pot. He opens a large book, reading like he didn't just leave the basement as if he owned the place.
“Come have breakfast with us.” Thomas beckons you over, sliding the plate he was just preparing over to you. “I was just about to go upstairs and give this to ya.”
“Thank you, I'll eat it in my room. I don't want to disturb you all.” You come closer to the bar, fingers placed around the porcelain plate. You feel eyes on you, Holden continues to eat in the corner of your eyes. Eli is mouthing scriptures at his seat.
“No, no, come stay!” Thomas hands you a cup of coffee. The smell brings you back home. It's not a good memory. “It'll do you some good to have company, even for a moment. Please stay.”
You nod, clammy palms rubbing along your trousers. “...sure, just for breakfast though.” Rubbing your nose, Thomas notices.
“Sorry ‘bout the smell. We think there's a rat that died in the basement but we can't seem to find it.” He picks at his own plate while leaning on the other side of the bar. “That's why the reverend was down there. It was his turn to look.”
You nod, glancing briefly at the trap door on the floor. “Can I have a glass of water instead? I don't like coffee.”
His fork clangs on the plate as he lets go. “Oh of course!” Turning around he takes a pitcher of water and then he pours you a glass. While he does that, you look at the pictures behind the bar.
“Which one are your sisters?” You gesture towards the frames, Thomas still has his back towards you as he continues to pour you a glass.
“Oh, the picture that's in the middle.” You follow where he pointed at. A photograph of two smiling women in front of the inn when it was still new and shiny hangs in the middle of the bar. Their faces are flat and serious but the way their arms are around each other says that they're particularly happy in the picture. If not for the long exposure needed to take the scene, they would be grinning widely.
You tilt your head at the picture, eyes scanning their features and comparing it to Thomas' face. “You don't look like them.”
He twists around, handing you your glass of water. “I've been told.” Chuckling, he looks back at the picture briefly before turning towards you. “They got my mother's features and I got my father's. Which parent do you look like the most?” His eyes watch the mouth of the glass against your lips.
“I barely remember their faces now.” You don't drink the water just yet to answer his question. “So I don't know.”
“That's too bad.” And yet, he smiles. “How ‘bout you, Holden? Who do you look like?”
“My mother.” He says gruffly, tone monotone and uninterested.
“Ah.” Thomas picks at his plate again.
“I haven't thanked you yet for saving him.” You address the large man. “Thank you.”
“I just happened upon the place. My eyes couldn't leave the train wreck.” Holden stares at the same spot on the bar, you follow his line of sight, once you've reached the end, you see a dark red splatter on a glass of gin.
Before you could ask, Eli interrupts. “As is his will.” He's now in front of the fire even though it's sweltering inside already. “It's very lucky that Holden happens to be riding that way.” Eli says those words with humour, as if the train derailing is the funniest thing in the world.
Thomas clears his throat, “I heard no one else on the train got hurt.” You sigh in relief, knowing the real Clementine and her family are safe and sound. “A few railroad workers were injured but they're fine now, last I heard.”
“Yes, it's good that no one else got severely hurt.” Lucy appears inside the inn, smiling at you. She stalks silently around you like you're prey. Your hand instinctively slides down towards your gun belt.
“Well, except for your lad.” Thomas says, you look at him with wide eyes, blood running cold, gun now fully in your hand. The world swirls around you, your breathing gets faster, heartbeat loud in your ears. The air shifts, everyone except Thomas stiffens. “We know who he is. He's a fuckin’ legend ‘round ‘ere, but don't worry, we won't tell any lawmen. We're not like that.” Thomas continues to speak even with your world crumbling around you. He doesn't know what he just revealed. “Drink your water, we don't want you goin' thirsty now.”
“‘L-lad?’” you almost whisper, but the entire room is silent, a pin could drop and you'd hear it. Your words are thunderous compared to the fire cracking in the fireplace. “You said you're from here.”
Thomas chuckles nervously, you stand up, eyes flicking over towards the occupants. The rotten stench under the floorboards has increased ten fold in your panic, the tiny splotches of crimson on the walls and glass aren't just dirt and grime.
It's blood, and the entire inn is covered in it. Hastily scrubbed off the surface, but the mark of death remains.
They all look at you, Holden stands behind you, his shadow casting over you. Lucy continues to smile while Eli looks on amidst the backdrop of the raging fire behind him. Thomas gives you a look, shaking his head subtly.
You don't miss a beat, gun aiming behind you to shoot. But no bullet flies, you don't hit your mark for the chamber is all emptied out without your knowledge. You don't know when it was taken out but you don't have time to ponder it. Running past Lucy towards the stairs, you yell his name.
“Hobie!” You manage to get to the third step before you fall flat on your face, nose harshly landing on the stair, shoulder oozing something warm. Looking over the source, you see Lucy's hunting knife embedded in your shoulder. “No!”
Lucy giggles, and the reverend joins her side, face downturned, eyes following how your blood oozes out of your back.
“Fuck! They said don't draw blood! What the bloody hell is wrong with you!” Thomas shows his true colours, yelling at Lucy angrily. You continue to crawl up the stairs despite the searing pain. “Fuckin’ grab her! Get the key, it's on her.”
“I'm…” you still fight, elbows pressed on the rough wood, crawling relentlessly up the stairs. “Going to fucking kill all of you.” You say through gritted teeth, ignoring the seething pain as your body trembles.
Eli's voice pipes up. “We just want to get you home. God will strike you down if you do that.”
“Strike me down all he wants. He knows where I am.” With determined eyes, you keep crawling even though your arms are split apart by splinters.
You're about halfway up the steps when you hear loud heavy footsteps walk towards your form. Groaning, you dig for the key inside your pocket. The second you find it, you toss it with all your might, it flies up and then it lands and slides under the bar shelves. It's your turn to cackle. Large hands grab you, turning you over. Holden's scowl looks back at you. Puckering your lips, you spit at his face, laughing as he lets you go, desperately cleaning his face.
“Move over, big guy. Do I have to do everything around here?” Silent steps cross over to you while you try to desperately climb up. You can't feel your back anymore. Suddenly, you feel a cloth press on your mouth and nose. You know this smell, it's sweet and tart, but there's an underlying bitterness. Recognizing it from the description on the botanical books you've read, the ones that they say a proper lady shouldn't read. And you know you're about to black out within ten seconds. You try to fight back but you're weakening.
“Shh,” Lucy coos, arm tightening around your neck as she presses the concoction harder on your nose. Her own arm hits the knife still in your shoulder, you gasp in pain, inhaling more. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”
The last thing you hear is his voice calling out after you. You're not sure if it's real or not, but you still cling to hope that it is.
—
The rope around your body is rough against your skin, the hemp seems to tighten around you as you move. You feel bandages on your shoulder blade, stab wound aching and throbbing. Entire body covered in sweat, your clothes are drenched from the heat. Your vision swirls, mind tethering between reality and fantasy. You see your aunt standing near the rake you just held, your uncle crouched in the corner, watching you struggle against your binds. And him, who sits next to you, as if he's guarding you. His face crosses your line of sight, it shifts between Hobie's soft smile, and his grinning face.
“I told you, you can't leave.” He says, hand reaching up to touch your face. You know he's not real, that he's a result of what Lucy gave you, what they've been giving you— but you still feel the air around him shift, how his palm sits on your cheek like a hot pan against your skin.
“C–Cross,” you gulp down as much air as you can amidst your state. “What did I do to deserve this?”
He could only grin at you.
“You’re awake, good. Lucy didn't accidentally kill you.” Eli stands near the doorway of the stable with a gold gun in his hand. Fingers yanking off his tab collar.
“Eli, you creepy motherfucker.” You slur your words, but you fight the haze. “How much did they pay you just to bring me back?”
He sniffs, “a lot.” The horses neigh in the background, you turn your head and you see Bucky and Cherry frantically thump and kick their hooves inside their pen.
“You’re not even a reverend are you?”
“No,” He says, turning away from the doors to face you. “I was once though.”
“Let me guess, you weren't cut out to be one.” You lean up, almost folding yourself to squint at him. “Or they fucking kicked you out.” He flinches, it's subtle, but you saw it. “They did, didn't they? What did you do, reverend?” You taunt while you try to ease your wrists off from the rope. Your skin stings from the movement, but it'll be worth it once you get your hands around his scrawny neck. “Oh shit, don't tell me it's—”
“It was gambling. I've racked up a debt.” He was quick to answer, as if he's still trying to protect his reputation. “I used all the donations.”
“That's fucked up.” You scoff, riling him up, playing him like a fiddle. “Seriously, so fucked up. And you decided to what? Scam more people by wearing the uniform?” Eli doesn't answer, you see him bounce on the balls of his feet, anxiety rolling off him in waves. “Is there an afterlife, reverend?” You say in a small, weaker voice to rag on him on more. It works when he turns towards you.
“Stop talking,” He saunters over to you, crouching down to your level. “I've already heard all those words before, you don't get to hurt me back, girl.”
“Was it all of you? Holden looked like he didn't want to be in there.”
“Please, he was the one who recruited me. He knew that Thomas needed more men the moment he heard Hobie's name.”
You chuckle bitterly. “You know that one of you has damaged the goods, right?”
“Thomas healed you.”
“Yeah, but still, you've left a mark. That means the pay will go down, that means your share will go down thanks to Lucy.” You can practically see the cogs in his head turn. Tilting your head, you turn him against his own team. “Tell me, would it hurt if you got someone out? You know, increase your pay.”
“What are you saying?”
“There are plenty of alligators here. I'm saying that accidents happen.”
Eli knits his brows, “but which one—?” The unmistakable sound of a gun going off echoes around the marsh. It's so loud that the horses are startled, panicked neighing fill the stable, birds scramble off the trees to fly away. “That came from inside the inn!” He stands up, you drop your façade as he turns away. “Shit!” More shots ring out, then a dozen more, suddenly, it's quiet in the marsh again.
Eli is in the perfect position for you, his body shields you from the afternoon sun as he stands there in a worried state. His gun is in his clammy hand, hammer pushed all the way down. Without a thought, you sit up in a crouched position slowly without startling him. And then you push him on the back of his knees with your shoulder, earning a pained groan from you and a sudden bang when he falls that has you flinching away.
Rubies pool around Eli's body, and you realize, he has shot himself when he fell on his face.
“Fuck.” The voice by the doorway says, you can only see his silhouette, the setting sun directly at his back. He's hunched over, silver gun in his bloodied hand.
“Hobie, are you real?” You could cry, on instinct, you move to get to him but your binds prevent you. Tears cling to your eyelashes as he slowly makes his way towards you. “H-how?”
You can see his face fully now, blood coats his cheeks and neck, eyebrows contorted in pain but his smile tells you otherwise. “I woke up.”
“You did.” Sobbing, you try to hold him even with the ropes around your wrist. “Are you okay?”
Hobie holsters his gun, wiping the blood off his hands on his trousers, and then he cradles your face. Thumb brushing along the tears. “‘m alright, dizzy and a bit of a headache but ‘m alright.” His viridescent eyes are aglow, trapped tears glimmering. “Are you—? Did they hurt you?” He asks in a small voice, afraid of your reply.
You frown, and he already knows the answer. “I thought you wouldn't wake up.”
“With you waitin' for me, of course I'd wake up.” Hobie lays his forehead against your own. He's real, and he's holding you in his arms again. “‘m real, love. I'll never leave you again.”
You cry in his arms even when he cuts off your binds. Your mind is still reeling from the previous event. Body free, you embrace him, face tucked on the crook of his neck. He holds you, kissing your temple, hands rubbing up and down on your back. He apologizes against your skin a hundred times. And you forgive him a hundred more.
Hobie releases all the horses from the stable, all the now riderless horses gallop out in a rush. He guides Cherry and Bucky out to hitch them just outside on the trees and away from the inn and stable. Coming by to get you, who stands in front of the inn.
“I need to get my things.” He says next to you, pinky curled around your own. “Your letters are still in there.”
“I'll come with you.”
“No, you don't need to see that.” His eyes warn you of the sight ahead.
“Too late for that, Hobie.” You thump your head on his bicep. “I’ll watch your back. Just in case.”
“Stay close, yeah?” He smiles softly, letting go of your hand reluctantly. You nod behind him, gun drawn and loaded.
The door opens, you try not to look at the bodies at your feet but your eyes seem to gravitate towards the violence that was left. There's blood splattered all over the walls, Holden's body is hunched over itself, blood seeping out from his numerous gunshot wounds. You walk a bit more, following Hobie's path. Broken glass crunches at your feet, and you see Lucy laying on the ground with her own knife shoved inside her chest. Her eyes are wide open, mouth agape in surprise. By the stairs, in the same position you were in mere hours ago, lies Thomas with a shotgun wound on his back, making you see through him.
“H-how'd you manage this on your own?” Your nails scratch along the metal of your gun.
“You were in danger.” Was all he answered.
As you stand there, you hear something on the floor next to the bar, glancing downwards even though you've had enough of the sight, you find someone who shouldn't be there.
“Culver?” You ask, and he whizzes out.
“Help. Me.” He tugs at your trouser leg, he's drenched in crimson, from his face down to his boots.
“He was hiding underneath the floorboards with the bodies of the actual owners.” Hobie says, guilt is written all over your face. “It's not your fault, love, you gave him a chance and he spat at it.”
“P-please,” he wheezes out, voice hoarse and broken, “they hired me, I-I was just following orders.”
You sniff, fists shaking. “It was my aunt wasn't it?”
Culver shakes his head, desperate to please you, desperate for you to save him again. “No, it was your h—”
Your bullet cuts him off, he lays there, now unmoving, and the gun in your hand smoking. You feel like you're deprived of air. Hands shaking, tears flowing out freely.
Hobie reaches for you slowly, you don't flinch away so he pulls you in, letting you weep against his chest.
—
The flames ebb away at the building, ashes flying off into the air as the roof collapses down on itself. You let the smoke fill your lungs, watching the fire light up the entire marsh, but it acts as a beacon to where you are. And you can't risk being found, especially when he's back on your side.
You kneel down, placing the framed photograph of the actual owners on the ground, apologizing to them quietly.
“We should go, Hobs.” You softly say, tugging at his sleeves.
He nods, eyes flicking between you and the burning inn. His palm is pointed towards you, waiting for you to reach for him. When your hand slides on his own, all his fears melt away. You're safe, and he's alive— that's all that matters.
—
Midnight comes, you and Hobie rode further north and away from the chaos you two left. Bucky and Cherry sleep next to each other, both tired from the ride. You tend to the fire while Hobie cleans his hands in a nearby river. The murky water turns a dark shade of red as he scrubs his hands clean, there's blood under his fingernails. And shallow crimson slashes on his arms. Once all the blood has been washed away, he sees a slash on his palm, identical to yours, the one he sutured himself. He winces, and you turn around to check on him. The both of you had been quiet the entire journey, preferring to look on whenever one groans in pain or when either one of you shifts on the saddle. You don't want to talk about it, and he doesn't want to either. Both thinking that it was his and your fault for everything that had happened.
He holds up a hand to you, wordlessly telling you that he's alright. Nodding, you turn back towards the fire, your vision shifts from the campfire in front of you to the burning cinders of the inn. A wet cloth on your cheek jerks you awake.
“Sorry,” Hobie flinches, taking the cold cloth away from your skin. “You have soot all over your face.”
You smile softly, hand reaching for his wrist, gently placing the cloth back to your face. He understands, wiping away the ash off of your skin. You stare at him, face unreadable, bandage still wrapped around his head. “Hobie,” he hums in reply, continuing to wipe the grime off. “You said you had to leave but you never told me how you left. Please tell me what happened that night.” Why did you leave me?
Hobie scooches closer to you, knee to knee, hand still wiping along your forehead. “Hicks did it.” You listen, hands fisting his vest to tamp down your frustration and everything in between. “He was the one who found out, told your aunt and got a group from the factory to ambush me in our meeting place.” His voice breaks but he composes himself. “He was the one who slashed my throat and…” faltering, the cloth slid downwards to your neck, rubbing along your skin. “buried me alive under our tree.”
Your heart clenches, imaging him clawing his way out of the dark earth. “Hicks, h-he married my aunt six months after you left. That motherfucker boasted that he killed you, hid your body in the woods. But I knew better.”
Hobie runs his thumb under your eye, wiping away a stray tear. He gives you a brief smile. “Fucker wasn't content in bein’ the factory manager, he had to ‘eliminate the competition,’ he said. I wasn't even participatin’.”
“I'm sorry,” you wrap your arms over his shoulders, hands holding his jaw. You apologize to him like an acolyte asking for retribution in front of the shrine. “I'm sorry, I should've done something— I could've—”
“There was nothin' you could've done, love. Just like how I couldn't fight back.” He pulls you in, face pressed on the crown of your head. “They used you against me. Told me that you didn't want me anymore. Told me I was a burden to you.”
“No, never. I'd never do that.” You pull away, holding him close, meeting his emerald eyes that reminds you of the best parts of home.
“I know that now. I knew it back then too, but my anger and frustration got the best of me.” He presses a heavy kiss on your forehead as you close your eyes, listening to him breathe. “Peter helped me get out, and all he got from it was getting his eye taken out.”
You gasp softly. “He helped me too,” Hobie looks at you, hands still cradling your face. Hands that are warm against your soft skin. “He didn't tell anyone where you were, I didn't know until now, until your letter. He helped me get on a boat.” You remember that day, it was raining, it was also pouring down back when Hobie left. Your nails dig into your palms when your mind gives you the image of him digging himself out of the flooded soil, lungs inhaling in rain water and dirt. “I–I really wanted to look for you, to run after you but I couldn't.” Hobie presses you against his chest while you heave, tears flowing down your cheeks as you feel his own drop on your head. “They had me under lock and key, they guarded my doors for years, until—” You pause, hands bunched up on his shirt. “I'm so fucking sorry.”
Hobie cradles you in place, arms holding your form as he lets his touch calm you down, accepting your apology, and accepting his faults. “You did good, love, you survived. But I'm ‘ere now, you'll never be back there.” You nod against his chest, Hobie hides his sorrow filled face in the crook of your neck, lips pressed on your skin, mumbling apologies. “When I was runnin’ away while I was still bleedin’, I thought I should at least say goodbye to you. But I changed my mind and went towards the docks while Peter hid me in his cart.” He leans away, just like back then, he doesn't want to sink his teeth into you, to bite hard and draw blood. “I thought that you deserve someone who isn't me. Someone who's not broken. 'm broken, and 'm afraid I'll never return to who I was before.”
You reach up to touch his cheek tenderly, head placed on his lap, cradling your body just like he did under your oak tree. “You are not as broken as you think you are. Not to me, never. You are everything to me, Hobie Brown.” You hug him, for you have no idea how to tell him that you know he can't be ‘fixed’, that there's nothing to be fixed. That even if there was, you'd break yourself, break every muscle and bone in your body, tore it limb from limb so you'd be broken together. That you'll fit right in where his jagged edges lie just like before. But you know you don't have to, because you're just as broken as he is.
"Is there still room left in there for me?" You poke his chest right where his heart is.
His yearning has taken a form in you, it has your face, and it has your voice. You are love incarnate.
"Always. you've never left.” He says softly, words that are only for your ears. You nod, smiling, tilting your head up as he leans down. “Let's go home, love.” He wants to carve out your name in his heart, but he'll settle for the next best thing— etching your lips upon his own.
dont know what happened to my yapping notes💔 i accidentally deleted them so here i am (i read 5 chapters in 2 days before taking a small break, thats when i lost them😭)
the ring omg
oowwhh i wonder if clementine and her family is alright😿😿 hopefully good
r taking care of hobie even if she isn't doing so good herself💔💔 my babies im gonna cry
she better take care of herself☹️ not the hallucinations!! im going to sob katy
ngl r is stronger than me cuz i fear i would have COMPLETELY lost it after almost dying, killing all those ppl and almost losing the loml in the process😞 (and hallucinating people who ruined ur life.. was she drugged)
BUCKY!! and blue jeans😹😹 im joking hello cherry theyre going to get lots of apples and sugar cubes
WHAT THE FUCK! I HAD A BAD FEELING ABOUT THIS.. she was drugged i KNEW ITT!! i had a bit of hope for thomas but nvm!
i hate you eli oh my god
HOBIE!! HES BACK! I THOUGHT SOMETHING HAPPENED TO HIM
"Hobie, are you real?" she's been hallucinating sm she cant even tell its him💔💔 (too good to be true) ur CRUEL katy
godDAMN she got rid of culver real fast
what the fuck HICKS was the one who did that thing to his throat and buried him alive?!! oh my
nvm i forgive you aawwwwwe theyre so cute i missed them
Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW blood, TW death, CW guns, CW injury, CW food mentions, CW vomit mention, CW violence. Cowboy AU, old west AU.
Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist
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CHAPTER 2 >>> CHAPTER 3
You haven't been this close to him in 5 years. Breath to breath, heart to heart, you watch yourself in his jade eyes like how one sees themselves for the first time.
“I've finally found you.” Eyes shining, smile brighter than the sun bearing down, you grasp his face tenderly—as if your own eyes deceive you, as if you're dreaming. “Hobie?” You call for him when he doesn't move an inch above you.
Hobie's green eyes just stare at you, or through you. Mouth agape, breath stuck in his throat. To get his attention, you place your thumb softly over the corner of his eye, rubbing gently like you always did when he needed to wake up from a daydream.
For a split second, he leans in your touch. But as fast as he leaned in, he flinched away just as quick. Hobie scrambles away on the dusty ground like you've burned him. You might as well have when he felt how cold the golden band around your middle finger is. Soil dirtying the thick leather he wears, he stands up shakily. With the sun behind him, you have a hard time seeing his face, seeing the face you've longed for. A shadow cast around him, a halo of light around his head, the shadow blanketing him, as if you're not allowed to bear witness to all his glory.
Instead of ‘I love yous’ or ‘I miss yous’ falling on his lips, harshness flows out of them. “What are you doin' ‘ere?”
Hands bound, you try to sit up but fail. “Looking for you of course!” You say cheerfully, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. It is to you, for him, it's the most confusing statement.
“Why?” Hobie's hands clenched into fists. He's not going to hurt you, he'll never hurt you—but he really wants to punch something. Just when he thought the past won't haunt him, just when he pushed the past behind him, you came to him like some miracle.
You almost scoff. “W-why? To see you, just like you wanted me to.” Finally succeeding to sit up, you huff. “Five years of no communication,” you say forlornly, “of course I'd come and see you the moment you sent word.” You smile again, and he looks away. Anywhere, anything else than the curl of your lips.
“Sent word?” He shakes his head. “I've never sent you anythin'” His words would pierce your heart but your excitement and relief triumphs over the feeling.
“A-are you sure?” You blink slowly, reaching up with your bound hands. “Can you help me up, please? I'll show you the letter.”
“Letter?”
“Can you stop asking and just help me up, Hobie? Please, the ground is hot.” With a quick nod, eyes still glancing away from you, he grabs you by the rope around your hands, avoiding touching your own; lifting you up rather quickly. The moment you're back on your feet, he yanks his hand away from you, to which you're too happy to even notice. “It's in my skirt pocket, the right.” You instruct him since you can't reach it with your hands tied. Hobie reaches to your left, hand roaming around your empty pocket, careful not to graze your thigh. “My right, Hobs.” He freezes in place, he hasn't heard that nickname in years. Without another word, he takes his hand back, then he searches for the neatly folded paper. “I've never pegged you to be a law man. Are you gonna turn me over, sheriff?”
Hobie scowls at the title, “not even close.” He sees how much it's been folded, like you've read it a thousand times. Opening the letter, scanning the contents, the pause gives you time to admire him fully. The whole ‘american cowboy’ shtick suits him, you think. You ogle him unabashedly.
Each word has his jaw tightening. It's in his writing, he remembers the exact words that's full of longing and sadness. It's full of the words you expect him to say. Yet, he wasn't the one who sent it. He's sure he didn't, especially that it was written when he was drowning in his amber filled glass. “Where'd you get this?” His eyes flick over to you, your smile faltering for only a second.
“A mail carrier?” You chuckle, “it was delivered to me.”
“I didn't send this to you.”
“Oh.” Your smile crumbles but you fix it back up almost immediately, optimism winning. “Maybe you just forgot? Remember when you forgot to put on a sock that one time and—”
“This isn't some sock, Y/N.”
“You didn't ask for me? Was it forged?” You ask quietly, heart shattering with every question.
Hobie shakes his head, sucking in his teeth, he pockets the letter. Taking the rope that hangs on your bounded hands, he tugs you back to the shop. “C’mon.” Boots thudding on the ground, he's going to do what he's good at—his job.
“W-wait! I haven't seen you in five years and you're seriously taking me to face charges? Not even a ‘hello’ or ‘how are you doing?’” You yank back, heels digging in to stop him.
“Hello, you're not goin’ to jail, I need the ten bucks. You seem fine so ‘m bringin’ you home.” Dragging you inside, the shopkeeper grins and even claps at the sight.
“That is so much worse! Hobie—” You plead, you don't remember ever pleading with him before.
“Good job, Mr…?” The moustachioed man asks, ten dollar bill in hand.
“No one.” Hobie snatches the bill, then immediately dragging you towards the front of the shop. The bells chime as he opens the door, but you're too polite to not say sorry to the man.
“I'm sorry for pointing the gun at you, but you shouldn't have shot at someone who cannot shoot back. It's rude—!” You get yanked outside, the man looks confused at your words.
“Don't apologize to him.” Hobie says, hands placed on your hips, a feeling that isn't foreign to you, but something you missed dearly.
You grin at him, expecting him to say the words you long for. Instead, you get lifted up. Yelping, connected hands flying to his wrists, he places you on his horse. Hitching your hands around the horn of his saddle.
“I think we're good, Hobie, you got his money. Can you untie me now?” You start to get nervous. The brilliant black horse looks over his shoulder, black marbles staring at you, paying you no mind. “Hi, I'm Y/N. It's a pleasure.”
“The horse doesn't talk, lov—” He stops himself before he could complete his sentence. Hobie lifts himself up, sitting behind you, legs next to yours, arms cageing you in while he holds the reins. “Thought you'd know that. Or is it because the horses back in England learned to talk after I left.” You still have no idea why he left, you're waiting for the right time to ask, for now your main concern is why your hands are tied.
“I know horses can't talk.” You roll your eyes, “I just wanted to introduce myself. I'm sure you're close to your horse, correct? You were always fond of animals.”
“His name is Buckeye.” Hobie says, with a slight kick and a click of his tongue, he holds the reins precisely, steering Buckeye towards the train station further out of town.
“Cute!” You exclaim despite the hunger, you're still happy that you found him. Or he was the one who found you. Hobie always has a knack for that it seems, whether you're hiding away or can't be bothered to be perceived by anyone but him, he always finds you. Always. “It's a cute name. Buckeye, fitting name for a horse that's as gorgeous as you, huh?” You lean down just in time for Buckeye to look back at you. He neighs like he understood you. “Yeah, you agree.” You giggle, the dark horse looks like he enjoys the attention.
Hobie is baffled by the whole interaction. “Stop cooing at my horse.”
“Why not? He seems to like it.” You touch his mane as best as you can with your hands still tied. “Right, Bucky?” The horse has an extra pep in his step with you figuring out his nickname. You continue to giggle, Hobie has no idea how Bucky warmed up to you so fast. “Where to, Hobs? Home?” You ask excitedly.
“Yes, your home.”
“Wait— What?!” You almost fell off with how fast you looked back at him.
—
All your questions were left unanswered, but you still think he's playing some sort of joke on you, a joke that is getting older with every tick of the giant clock that hangs above the railway station. A tumbleweed passes by on the train tracks, a warm breeze passes by the near empty train station. Hobie stands next to you, leaning on a pillar, eyes roaming around the barren place. He's far enough that you can't reach him and tell him all the words you wanted to say to him since he left. Yet, he's close enough that you can admire all the physical changes.
From the scruff of his growing beard, to the peeking scar around his neck—he looks like he grew up. The smoke from his cigarette curls upwards to the brim of his hat, parting ways down the middle like theater curtains that show his chiseled face. His jade eyes are as green as the grass at home, as green as the fields you used to run around with him. It reminds you of home, and at the same time, it reminds you of the years that went by without those green eyes by your side.
“You look really good.” You finally say something that isn't a question. Fingers playing with the gold band around your middle finger. “Seriously, what's your secret?” Your behind hurts from the hard wood of the bench. Travelers are sparse and far in between, you notice them staying away from you.
As predicted, he doesn't answer.
You copy his voice and demeanor just how you remembered it last. “Well, love, the secret is to bathe in cow's milk at least once a week. And to stay away from the sun.” You keep your smile despite the silence from your companion. “That's probably what you'd say.” He barely even looks at you. “Well, five years isn't that long,” you lie, it was an eternity without him. “I always thought you'd age well—”
“Five years is a long fuckin' time, Y/N.”
“Finally, a word from your mouth.” You reach towards him, impatiently showing him your tied hands. “Can you untie me now? I can't run from you, with my ankle still hurting and the fact that I'm starving and dehydrated, I won't be doing any running for a while.”
“You're starving?” There's a glimmer of worry in his eyes.
“Yes,” you almost exclaim. Hobie takes one step towards you, instead of untying your binds, he takes your bandana that hangs around your neck. You flinch in response, an act that has him questioning what happened to you in those five years he left.
Hobie kneels in front of you, more careful of any sudden movement, a vision of a younger him passes over your mind's eye. He lifts your skirt up, enough to show the wound on your ankle. Gloved hands wrap gingerly around your foot as he places it on top of his thigh.
“The bleedin' stopped,” not once has he looked in your eyes. While you stare at him affectionately, a soft smile on your tired lips. Hobie wraps your bandana around the wound, tying it with a knot that you're familiar with. You grin at the memory of him using it all the time. “There,” just as you thought, he taps your foot three times, a habit of his that you're fond of. Hobie realizes what he has done subconsciously, straightening up, he takes a wrapped biscuit from his pocket. Grabbing your hand, he places it unceremoniously on your palm like your skin burns him like a sinner to holy water. “Your people will be here any minute.”
“We've been waiting here for two hours. And who—? What people?”
“The people who want you back home.”
You almost drop the biscuit. “But I don't want to come home! I want to stay with you—!”
“Why are you really ‘ere, Y/N? Hmm? Great aunt not givin’ you enough allowance?” He flicks the cigarette butt away.
Your heart cracks, voice as small as a dormouse. “Why are you being like this?” Hobie inhales sharply. “I told you, I came to see you because of your letter where you wrote that you missed me and wanted to see me. I–I have so many of mine right here—” A train whistle rings out before Hobie could reply.
The smell of burning coal itches your nose, blackened smoke billowing out of the metal beast that creaks and shrieks on the steel tracks.
A small crowd exits the train once it fully stops. You notice Hobie standing closer to you, hand placed on the back of the bench. His eyes search for someone amidst the travelers while you take big bites of the dry biscuit, desperate to satiate the rumbling of your stomach. Damn all the etiquette lessons drilled into your brain, you're starving.
“Can I have some water?” You cough out, palm covering your mouth for some decency. “Hobie?” His head is on a swivel, eyes scanning the stranger's faces. You tug at his coat, he curses under his breath so you retract your hand quickly. “I'm sorry.” Your small voice startles him.
“What?” He looks down at you, your eyes are glued on your lap, palms up like you're waiting for punishment. His jaw tightens, knuckles shaking. What happened to you after he ran? “‘ere,” passing a canteen of water over to you, he places it on your open palms gingerly.
The cool metal of the canteen hits your skin, instead of stinging pain. “Thank you,” you take a drink, Hobie doesn't miss how your hands shake, almost spilling water all over yourself.
“Stop sayin' that.” He says it through a softer tone, “don't be so polite.” He's not trying to chastise you, but you don't know the difference.
“Sorry—I'll stop.” You close the lid to the canteen, giving it back to him without lifting your head up.
As the crowd thins, Hobie controls his breathing. It was better when you were looking at him, at least then he could see how happy you were.
“No one's here.” He finally says, the hands on his sides stretching, joints aching from the previous tightness of his knuckles.
“Because no one's looking.” You hope that was the case. Or at least it was just her looking for you, not him too.
“The reward on your head says otherwise.” Hobie wishes he didn't say everything that passes by his mind when you look at him like a heartbroken fawn. “C’mon.” He takes your arm, helping you stand up. He's ill equipped to handle emotions right now, especially if he can barely control his own.
“Where are we going?” You ask, shoes thumping across the floorboards.
“The post office, it's right around the corner.” Sure enough, the post office is connected to the railroad station. Convenient, you thought. Stopping next to Bucky on his post, he neighs at the sight of you. You smile at him, even though he can't possibly understand your expression. Hobie taps his saddle, subtly asking your permission to lift you up. You nod once, as if you could say no. With one strong lift, you're back on Bucky's saddle. “Right, stay ‘ere, scream if you're in trouble.”
“You're leaving me here?”
“No, I need to check my telegram. I can see you through the window, yeah?” He points at the foggy windows of the post office. “I'll be back in five.”
“What if someone comes?”
He's already halfway to the office. “Scream.”
An old woman with a cane and a trendy dress passes by, seeing your bound hands, she tosses Hobie a look of disapproval.
“It's fine, she's my wife and she likes to roleplay.” Once upon a time, he thought that he'd call you that for real. That was a different time. “Ain't that right, sweetheart?” He opens the door for the woman who looks at you for reassurance.
You give the stranger your best smile. “Yes, my love.” His finger twitches, breath hitching. “Don’t worry about me, ma’am, it's all good.”
The older woman scoffs, muttering a ‘the youth and their weird sex fantasies.’ She enters the office first while Hobie gives you an approving nod.
“The excuse wasn't even good.”
“It worked right?” With a smug smile on his lips, he enters the office while you settle on Bucky.
“Your rider's weird.” You whisper to his horse who huffs in response.
Hobie grabs a form on a table placed near the windows. He has the perfect view of you chatting with Bucky. A smile creeps up on him, to which he tamps down immediately. Writing all the necessary information, with a fake name and address of course, he gives it to the man at the counter who wordlessly reads it and searches in the back for any letters for him.
He watches you smile at his horse, desperately trying to remember how your laughter sounded. A real one where you would almost choke at your own spit because of a joke he told you. The smile curls around his lips once again.
An envelope slides out of the slot, his fake name, Larry Smith, is written in neat writing. He rips it open immediately, eyes skimming the contents. The words ‘change of plans’, ‘moved south’ that are followed by an address that he's familiar with in the southern area has him taking his hat off, hands rubbing along his hairline from how crappy the situation is. Judging by all the detail on the letter, it would take him weeks to get you there, months if something unsavory happens on the road. He has a feeling that something would happen based on the reward increase that's listed next to the address. From five thousand to six.
Your piercing scream rings all the alarm bells in his body, bolting straight away, he sees you try to fight off a couple of men that are quickly riding off with you. They're moving three ways from Sunday, their laughter fading out. Hobie's blood boils.
Buckeye neighs loudly, waking his rider up from his blind anger. Hobie unhitches the dark horse, long leg swinging over the saddle, boots immediately placed inside the stirrups, hands tightly curled around the reins. And off he goes, leaving the railroad station in the dust, galloping incredibly fast.
He hears you yell his name just before you were abruptly cut off by a cloth shoved in your mouth. “Y/N!” Desperately calling for you, anger rolls off him like an avalanche in the winter. Taking his pistol out, with one hand he aims. But with the speed and the jostling around, he can't aim straight—especially if there's a chance of him shooting you instead.
The phantom pain around his neck aches.
Adrenaline rushes through him, he sees reason, aiming at the other man that isn't holding you. With a click, and a squeeze of the trigger—he shoots. The bullet whizzes by with a piercing sound, hitting the man's shoulder, turning his insides out, spraying warm crimson everywhere. The pained yell he let out would haunt your dreams. Moreso of the sorrow filled scream his companion let out.
With a thud, the limp body falls, his own horse running him over. You shut your eyes, mind crawling back to the one place you were happy staying forever in, Hobie's tiny flat back home. Back when afternoon tea consists of him rambling about some new invention he thought of, back when his hands would roam over your skin softly. Back when you held him close to you as he whispered promises in your ears.
Now it's all rough leather against your hand, jade eyes avoiding your own, mouth permanently etched into a frown. You know him, deep down the Hobie who would press feather light kisses on your lips is still in him. That deep down he has built a façade to survive this lawless land, and it's hard for him to break that carefully made façade in one day. You'd find his softness again, but you have to survive this first.
The horse you've been thrown on has finally stopped running. Your chest hurts from all the jostling, you were placed stomach first on the saddle—where the jagged leather uncomfortably rubbed against you and the spine of the horse hit you over and over again. The strange man yanks you away, now you're completely standing up with a gun pressing on your temple. A cry inches up to your throat, the cloth in your mouth chokes you. The man smells of cow shit and iron.
You watch as Bucky halts to a stop, dust flying around like the fireflies back home. The hat on Hobie's head hides the anger in his eyes, trigger finger itching to shoot again.
You cry, his name muffled by the cloth. You didn't mean to cry, but everything hurts. The warm barrel of the gun digs into your skull, whilst your hands grip the stranger's arm, your nails hopelessly trying to claw him away from you. The stranger smells like death.
“You killed my brother!” The man screams in your ears, breath rancid, warm air tickling your cheek. Amidst the loud rushing of your blood in your ears, you hear hurried footsteps behind you. They sound like there could be dozens of them, all pointing their guns at the man you loved. Still love, even now.
Hobie doesn't get off his horse. He sits still, frozen like a bronze statue. The only indication of him being alive was his labored breathing.
“What's happenin’?” A gruff voice asks from behind, thick southern drawl making him stand out from the rest of the gang. “Who's this, Jacky?”
“The broad, the broad from the telegram. Henry and I recognized her, thought we'd be rich. We saw her first!” Jacky acts like a child throwing a tantrum.
“Where's Henry then?” The older sounding man asks.
“With a bullet in him,” Hobie's voice is calm, cold and calculating, none of the warmth you were used to. “He's laying in a pool of his own blood a few ways from ‘ere. I bet the coyotes have him now.”
“You fucker!” Jacky presses the gun closer, you cry out in pain. Hobie's hand twitches. “I'll fucking shoot her! I swear I'd shoot!”
“Do you think that's worth it? Getting her blood all over your nice camp?” Hobie's unfeeling tone makes you weep harder. “Killin’ your mark? My mark?” He speaks commandingly, teeth gritted.
You look up to the heavens, blue sky engulfing your vision. A part of you wants to go home, a part that regrets running away in the first place. But there's a bigger part of you that's glad that you saw him again, even though you face your imminent death. It was worth it, you suppose. At least now your heart can rest after seeing him alive. You close your eyes when the pistol next to your head clicks.
“You talk big, a life for a life then.” A tear slides down your cheek. Hobie aims for your captor's head.
“Wait a damn minute!” You hear footsteps come from behind, the older man steps between them. “I know I remember ya from somewhere.” He tips his hat at Hobie, just in time for you to see him stare at you back intensely. “Yeah, I know ya. You're the one who took out Culver's men in one night, ain't ya? Thirty fuckin’ men all dead in one night.” Gasps are heard from the dozen or so people from behind. You hear whispers of the name ‘spider of the west’ behind you. “Christ, you're him.” With his hands right next to his head in surrender, he looks over his shoulder over to you, you see fear in the old man's eyes. “Let the little miss go, Jacky.”
“An eye for an eye, Arthur—!” Jacky pleads.
“Let her go or I'll be the one putting a bullet to your head, boy!” His scream has you flinching.
Jacky reluctantly lets you go, you almost crumple to your feet but you still stand, not wanting to give them the satisfaction. Your hands tremble as you take out the musty cloth inside your mouth.
Arthur walks over to you, hand ghosting over your back. “‘m sorry about that, sweetheart.”
You walk with your head held high. “Don't say sorry.” Your tear filled eyes flick over to the bearded man. “You’re not the one who hurt me.”
“Still, I'd like to say sorry on behalf of my belligerent men.” He looks up at Hobie who's still sitting on his horse passively. But the older man seems to know the deadly storm brewing behind those emerald eyes. “I apologize for the…miscommunication. If my men knew who you were, they wouldn't have tried anythin'. Jacky and his brother are too big for their breeches. ”
“The next time I see any of you on the road, I won't hesitate.” Hobie says, eyes bright, burning like greek fire.
“As is your right. You take care now.”
You silently lift yourself up on Bucky, with the help from Hobie, hand sliding away the moment you successfully tug yourself up behind him. Hobie doesn't see how vacant your stare is. You refuse to hold on to him, you're afraid of what he did, not of him. He thinks it's the other way around, it's his worst nightmare.
As you both gallop away, the last thing you heard above the hoofbeats is the unmistakable sound of a gun going off.
—
You're getting further and further away from the town you were in. The sun sets next to you as you look at the blood caked under your nails. You no longer shake or cry, just numb.
Buckeye passes by a lone graveyard, metal fences jagged and angled awkwardly. The dilapidated chapel cracks and falls under its own weight. Crows have made a home on the old tombstones, their cawing and beady black eyes raise the skin on your arms. The names of the dead are barely readable on the tombstones—rotten pots of flowers lay on the bed of graveyard soil, black petals going back to where they came from. You look away, afraid that if you don't, you'd see yourself among them.
The large rock formations loom overhead, jagged lines curved and sculpted by time. The holes dotted along its large walls act like a thousand eyes watching over you. Beady limestone eyes twitching, bleading, and crying. The sun fades away behind the horizon, cold replacing warmth, shadows replacing light.
Everything aches, your legs are still shaking from the encounter, the rustling tumbleweeds makes you jump. Eyes frantic, breath quickening, hands going numb—mind reeling back to the bloodied dead man.
“Stop.” You say too quietly. “Stop the fucking horse!”
Hobie reigns in Bucky, halting to a stop. You slid off ungracefully, knee hitting the ground as you scramble away. Bile rises in your throat, acid expelled out of your mouth because of your near empty stomach.
Familiar footsteps walk behind you, you wait for him to close the distance, to hold you close like he has always done five years ago. Yet, he stays far, stopping just a few feet away from your trembling body.
With shaky legs, you stand up, back still facing him. You wipe your mouth clean with your sleeve, Hobie's hand twitches for the handkerchief inside his pocket. He doesn't give it to you. He doesn't know why he didn't. Sniffing, you cough, eyes still stinging.
“Did they hit your head?” He finally says something, his words echoing in the vast empty space.
“No, I'm fine.” You pass by him, hands braced on Bucky's side.
“Y/N—”
You whirl around, “I said I'm fucking fine!” Heaving, chest aching, you rub your tired eyes. “I'm fine, don't worry about me, okay? Can we go?”
“We'll camp ‘ere.” With Hobie's statement, you look back at where you came from. Your captor's camp is miles away from you now, but you swear you can still feel the barrel of his gun digging into your skull, and the rotten smell of his mouth. “They won't follow us.”
“He knew you,” your eyes don't shine with the same optimism he was greeted with. “He looked scared when he remembered you. Hobie, W–what did you do to get him to fear you like that?”
“A lot of things you shouldn't worry about.” He walks past you, grabbing his pack from the saddle. “The less you know, the better.”
You nod, tears brimming in your eyes. He's not the old Hobie you remembered. He would've told you, he used to tell you everything. The gold ring in your finger feels heavy. And all the unsent letters you've hidden inside your skirt feels empty, the flowery words you've written inside are unrequited.
As day fades away to night, the moon shines bright as the stars twinkle above you. The warmth of the open fire settles into your fatigued bones, the pads of your fingers slowly regains feeling. The air is crisp, breeze blowing your lashes, cooling down the hot can of beans in front of you. The scene in front of you reminded you of the time you used to sneak out into the woods to meet with Hobie. He'd light a small fire and huddle close to you while you point out constellations. The beans are new, you wish they were bread instead, like the ones you used to nick from the kitchen.
This time, he sits across from you, far away from you as the fire cackles in between you both. The flames dance in his green eyes, a beautiful sight that you love—yet, you can't help but stay away from it.
“Cold?” He asks, hands properly warmed up from the hot can.
“No,” you answer flatly, legs tucked into you, chin placed atop your knees while you watch the embers flicker away into the dark. The cold helps, it helps numb you down.
“Alright.”
In another time he would've offered his coat, not just the shabby itchy blanket thrown over your shoulders. It all seems like a lifetime ago now.
You have no idea what caused him to leave without a goodbye, whether it was you or your unfeeling family, or for a pursuit of something better—but you know in those five years he has changed, you know he's still the Hobie you love, but you can barely recognize his heart anymore. You came to the new world for a new life with him, away from your predetermined life, because through and through you still love him. The promises he once whispered into your skin repeats in your head like a broken record. It's what's keeping you warm, sane, and in the present.
He eats silently, while you wallow into yourself. You've braved the ocean to see him, rode a dozen trains to get close to him, lost so much and gained so little just to see him alive. Was it all worth it? Worth all the calluses on your feet from all the walking? Worth all the tears you shed just to realize that maybe he doesn't love you anymore? That he fell out of love in those five grueling years?
Does he know that you still love him?
The man sitting across from you is a stranger. Not the one you promised your heart to.
“Hobie?” You call for him, heavy eyes staying on the ashes in front of you.
“Hmm?” He hums, barely audible for you. You silently wish that you don't get used to all his halfhearted replies. You need to hold on to a part of him from five years ago or you'll go crazy and run off into the barren lands of the west.
Against better judgment, against the screaming voice in your head, you finally look at him right in his eyes. “Why'd you leave?”
He quietly sighs, “I had to.” Those green eyes you love so much swirl with unsung emotion that you're not privy to. “Why'd you run away from home?”
“I had to.”
Hobie nods once.
You take your dinner in your cold hands, biting down the bitterness and the feeling. With an inhale, you smile through the pain of your realization. It's better not to dwell on it, or you might lose yourself. Instead, you take the opportunity to live in the moment with him—Relish your time with Hobie or whatever time you have left with him on the journey home.
Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW blood, TW death, CW guns, CW injury, CW food mentions, CW vomit mention, CW violence. Cowboy AU, old west AU.
Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist
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CHAPTER 2 >>> CHAPTER 3
You haven't been this close to him in 5 years. Breath to breath, heart to heart, you watch yourself in his jade eyes like how one sees themselves for the first time.
“I've finally found you.” Eyes shining, smile brighter than the sun bearing down, you grasp his face tenderly—as if your own eyes deceive you, as if you're dreaming. “Hobie?” You call for him when he doesn't move an inch above you.
Hobie's green eyes just stare at you, or through you. Mouth agape, breath stuck in his throat. To get his attention, you place your thumb softly over the corner of his eye, rubbing gently like you always did when he needed to wake up from a daydream.
For a split second, he leans in your touch. But as fast as he leaned in, he flinched away just as quick. Hobie scrambles away on the dusty ground like you've burned him. You might as well have when he felt how cold the golden band around your middle finger is. Soil dirtying the thick leather he wears, he stands up shakily. With the sun behind him, you have a hard time seeing his face, seeing the face you've longed for. A shadow cast around him, a halo of light around his head, the shadow blanketing him, as if you're not allowed to bear witness to all his glory.
Instead of ‘I love yous’ or ‘I miss yous’ falling on his lips, harshness flows out of them. “What are you doin' ‘ere?”
Hands bound, you try to sit up but fail. “Looking for you of course!” You say cheerfully, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. It is to you, for him, it's the most confusing statement.
“Why?” Hobie's hands clenched into fists. He's not going to hurt you, he'll never hurt you—but he really wants to punch something. Just when he thought the past won't haunt him, just when he pushed the past behind him, you came to him like some miracle.
You almost scoff. “W-why? To see you, just like you wanted me to.” Finally succeeding to sit up, you huff. “Five years of no communication,” you say forlornly, “of course I'd come and see you the moment you sent word.” You smile again, and he looks away. Anywhere, anything else than the curl of your lips.
“Sent word?” He shakes his head. “I've never sent you anythin'” His words would pierce your heart but your excitement and relief triumphs over the feeling.
“A-are you sure?” You blink slowly, reaching up with your bound hands. “Can you help me up, please? I'll show you the letter.”
“Letter?”
“Can you stop asking and just help me up, Hobie? Please, the ground is hot.” With a quick nod, eyes still glancing away from you, he grabs you by the rope around your hands, avoiding touching your own; lifting you up rather quickly. The moment you're back on your feet, he yanks his hand away from you, to which you're too happy to even notice. “It's in my skirt pocket, the right.” You instruct him since you can't reach it with your hands tied. Hobie reaches to your left, hand roaming around your empty pocket, careful not to graze your thigh. “My right, Hobs.” He freezes in place, he hasn't heard that nickname in years. Without another word, he takes his hand back, then he searches for the neatly folded paper. “I've never pegged you to be a law man. Are you gonna turn me over, sheriff?”
Hobie scowls at the title, “not even close.” He sees how much it's been folded, like you've read it a thousand times. Opening the letter, scanning the contents, the pause gives you time to admire him fully. The whole ‘american cowboy’ shtick suits him, you think. You ogle him unabashedly.
Each word has his jaw tightening. It's in his writing, he remembers the exact words that's full of longing and sadness. It's full of the words you expect him to say. Yet, he wasn't the one who sent it. He's sure he didn't, especially that it was written when he was drowning in his amber filled glass. “Where'd you get this?” His eyes flick over to you, your smile faltering for only a second.
“A mail carrier?” You chuckle, “it was delivered to me.”
“I didn't send this to you.”
“Oh.” Your smile crumbles but you fix it back up almost immediately, optimism winning. “Maybe you just forgot? Remember when you forgot to put on a sock that one time and—”
“This isn't some sock, Y/N.”
“You didn't ask for me? Was it forged?” You ask quietly, heart shattering with every question.
Hobie shakes his head, sucking in his teeth, he pockets the letter. Taking the rope that hangs on your bounded hands, he tugs you back to the shop. “C’mon.” Boots thudding on the ground, he's going to do what he's good at—his job.
“W-wait! I haven't seen you in five years and you're seriously taking me to face charges? Not even a ‘hello’ or ‘how are you doing?’” You yank back, heels digging in to stop him.
“Hello, you're not goin’ to jail, I need the ten bucks. You seem fine so ‘m bringin’ you home.” Dragging you inside, the shopkeeper grins and even claps at the sight.
“That is so much worse! Hobie—” You plead, you don't remember ever pleading with him before.
“Good job, Mr…?” The moustachioed man asks, ten dollar bill in hand.
“No one.” Hobie snatches the bill, then immediately dragging you towards the front of the shop. The bells chime as he opens the door, but you're too polite to not say sorry to the man.
“I'm sorry for pointing the gun at you, but you shouldn't have shot at someone who cannot shoot back. It's rude—!” You get yanked outside, the man looks confused at your words.
“Don't apologize to him.” Hobie says, hands placed on your hips, a feeling that isn't foreign to you, but something you missed dearly.
You grin at him, expecting him to say the words you long for. Instead, you get lifted up. Yelping, connected hands flying to his wrists, he places you on his horse. Hitching your hands around the horn of his saddle.
“I think we're good, Hobie, you got his money. Can you untie me now?” You start to get nervous. The brilliant black horse looks over his shoulder, black marbles staring at you, paying you no mind. “Hi, I'm Y/N. It's a pleasure.”
“The horse doesn't talk, lov—” He stops himself before he could complete his sentence. Hobie lifts himself up, sitting behind you, legs next to yours, arms cageing you in while he holds the reins. “Thought you'd know that. Or is it because the horses back in England learned to talk after I left.” You still have no idea why he left, you're waiting for the right time to ask, for now your main concern is why your hands are tied.
“I know horses can't talk.” You roll your eyes, “I just wanted to introduce myself. I'm sure you're close to your horse, correct? You were always fond of animals.”
“His name is Buckeye.” Hobie says, with a slight kick and a click of his tongue, he holds the reins precisely, steering Buckeye towards the train station further out of town.
“Cute!” You exclaim despite the hunger, you're still happy that you found him. Or he was the one who found you. Hobie always has a knack for that it seems, whether you're hiding away or can't be bothered to be perceived by anyone but him, he always finds you. Always. “It's a cute name. Buckeye, fitting name for a horse that's as gorgeous as you, huh?” You lean down just in time for Buckeye to look back at you. He neighs like he understood you. “Yeah, you agree.” You giggle, the dark horse looks like he enjoys the attention.
Hobie is baffled by the whole interaction. “Stop cooing at my horse.”
“Why not? He seems to like it.” You touch his mane as best as you can with your hands still tied. “Right, Bucky?” The horse has an extra pep in his step with you figuring out his nickname. You continue to giggle, Hobie has no idea how Bucky warmed up to you so fast. “Where to, Hobs? Home?” You ask excitedly.
“Yes, your home.”
“Wait— What?!” You almost fell off with how fast you looked back at him.
—
All your questions were left unanswered, but you still think he's playing some sort of joke on you, a joke that is getting older with every tick of the giant clock that hangs above the railway station. A tumbleweed passes by on the train tracks, a warm breeze passes by the near empty train station. Hobie stands next to you, leaning on a pillar, eyes roaming around the barren place. He's far enough that you can't reach him and tell him all the words you wanted to say to him since he left. Yet, he's close enough that you can admire all the physical changes.
From the scruff of his growing beard, to the peeking scar around his neck—he looks like he grew up. The smoke from his cigarette curls upwards to the brim of his hat, parting ways down the middle like theater curtains that show his chiseled face. His jade eyes are as green as the grass at home, as green as the fields you used to run around with him. It reminds you of home, and at the same time, it reminds you of the years that went by without those green eyes by your side.
“You look really good.” You finally say something that isn't a question. Fingers playing with the gold band around your middle finger. “Seriously, what's your secret?” Your behind hurts from the hard wood of the bench. Travelers are sparse and far in between, you notice them staying away from you.
As predicted, he doesn't answer.
You copy his voice and demeanor just how you remembered it last. “Well, love, the secret is to bathe in cow's milk at least once a week. And to stay away from the sun.” You keep your smile despite the silence from your companion. “That's probably what you'd say.” He barely even looks at you. “Well, five years isn't that long,” you lie, it was an eternity without him. “I always thought you'd age well—”
“Five years is a long fuckin' time, Y/N.”
“Finally, a word from your mouth.” You reach towards him, impatiently showing him your tied hands. “Can you untie me now? I can't run from you, with my ankle still hurting and the fact that I'm starving and dehydrated, I won't be doing any running for a while.”
“You're starving?” There's a glimmer of worry in his eyes.
“Yes,” you almost exclaim. Hobie takes one step towards you, instead of untying your binds, he takes your bandana that hangs around your neck. You flinch in response, an act that has him questioning what happened to you in those five years he left.
Hobie kneels in front of you, more careful of any sudden movement, a vision of a younger him passes over your mind's eye. He lifts your skirt up, enough to show the wound on your ankle. Gloved hands wrap gingerly around your foot as he places it on top of his thigh.
“The bleedin' stopped,” not once has he looked in your eyes. While you stare at him affectionately, a soft smile on your tired lips. Hobie wraps your bandana around the wound, tying it with a knot that you're familiar with. You grin at the memory of him using it all the time. “There,” just as you thought, he taps your foot three times, a habit of his that you're fond of. Hobie realizes what he has done subconsciously, straightening up, he takes a wrapped biscuit from his pocket. Grabbing your hand, he places it unceremoniously on your palm like your skin burns him like a sinner to holy water. “Your people will be here any minute.”
“We've been waiting here for two hours. And who—? What people?”
“The people who want you back home.”
You almost drop the biscuit. “But I don't want to come home! I want to stay with you—!”
“Why are you really ‘ere, Y/N? Hmm? Great aunt not givin’ you enough allowance?” He flicks the cigarette butt away.
Your heart cracks, voice as small as a dormouse. “Why are you being like this?” Hobie inhales sharply. “I told you, I came to see you because of your letter where you wrote that you missed me and wanted to see me. I–I have so many of mine right here—” A train whistle rings out before Hobie could reply.
The smell of burning coal itches your nose, blackened smoke billowing out of the metal beast that creaks and shrieks on the steel tracks.
A small crowd exits the train once it fully stops. You notice Hobie standing closer to you, hand placed on the back of the bench. His eyes search for someone amidst the travelers while you take big bites of the dry biscuit, desperate to satiate the rumbling of your stomach. Damn all the etiquette lessons drilled into your brain, you're starving.
“Can I have some water?” You cough out, palm covering your mouth for some decency. “Hobie?” His head is on a swivel, eyes scanning the stranger's faces. You tug at his coat, he curses under his breath so you retract your hand quickly. “I'm sorry.” Your small voice startles him.
“What?” He looks down at you, your eyes are glued on your lap, palms up like you're waiting for punishment. His jaw tightens, knuckles shaking. What happened to you after he ran? “‘ere,” passing a canteen of water over to you, he places it on your open palms gingerly.
The cool metal of the canteen hits your skin, instead of stinging pain. “Thank you,” you take a drink, Hobie doesn't miss how your hands shake, almost spilling water all over yourself.
“Stop sayin' that.” He says it through a softer tone, “don't be so polite.” He's not trying to chastise you, but you don't know the difference.
“Sorry—I'll stop.” You close the lid to the canteen, giving it back to him without lifting your head up.
As the crowd thins, Hobie controls his breathing. It was better when you were looking at him, at least then he could see how happy you were.
“No one's here.” He finally says, the hands on his sides stretching, joints aching from the previous tightness of his knuckles.
“Because no one's looking.” You hope that was the case. Or at least it was just her looking for you, not him too.
“The reward on your head says otherwise.” Hobie wishes he didn't say everything that passes by his mind when you look at him like a heartbroken fawn. “C’mon.” He takes your arm, helping you stand up. He's ill equipped to handle emotions right now, especially if he can barely control his own.
“Where are we going?” You ask, shoes thumping across the floorboards.
“The post office, it's right around the corner.” Sure enough, the post office is connected to the railroad station. Convenient, you thought. Stopping next to Bucky on his post, he neighs at the sight of you. You smile at him, even though he can't possibly understand your expression. Hobie taps his saddle, subtly asking your permission to lift you up. You nod once, as if you could say no. With one strong lift, you're back on Bucky's saddle. “Right, stay ‘ere, scream if you're in trouble.”
“You're leaving me here?”
“No, I need to check my telegram. I can see you through the window, yeah?” He points at the foggy windows of the post office. “I'll be back in five.”
“What if someone comes?”
He's already halfway to the office. “Scream.”
An old woman with a cane and a trendy dress passes by, seeing your bound hands, she tosses Hobie a look of disapproval.
“It's fine, she's my wife and she likes to roleplay.” Once upon a time, he thought that he'd call you that for real. That was a different time. “Ain't that right, sweetheart?” He opens the door for the woman who looks at you for reassurance.
You give the stranger your best smile. “Yes, my love.” His finger twitches, breath hitching. “Don’t worry about me, ma’am, it's all good.”
The older woman scoffs, muttering a ‘the youth and their weird sex fantasies.’ She enters the office first while Hobie gives you an approving nod.
“The excuse wasn't even good.”
“It worked right?” With a smug smile on his lips, he enters the office while you settle on Bucky.
“Your rider's weird.” You whisper to his horse who huffs in response.
Hobie grabs a form on a table placed near the windows. He has the perfect view of you chatting with Bucky. A smile creeps up on him, to which he tamps down immediately. Writing all the necessary information, with a fake name and address of course, he gives it to the man at the counter who wordlessly reads it and searches in the back for any letters for him.
He watches you smile at his horse, desperately trying to remember how your laughter sounded. A real one where you would almost choke at your own spit because of a joke he told you. The smile curls around his lips once again.
An envelope slides out of the slot, his fake name, Larry Smith, is written in neat writing. He rips it open immediately, eyes skimming the contents. The words ‘change of plans’, ‘moved south’ that are followed by an address that he's familiar with in the southern area has him taking his hat off, hands rubbing along his hairline from how crappy the situation is. Judging by all the detail on the letter, it would take him weeks to get you there, months if something unsavory happens on the road. He has a feeling that something would happen based on the reward increase that's listed next to the address. From five thousand to six.
Your piercing scream rings all the alarm bells in his body, bolting straight away, he sees you try to fight off a couple of men that are quickly riding off with you. They're moving three ways from Sunday, their laughter fading out. Hobie's blood boils.
Buckeye neighs loudly, waking his rider up from his blind anger. Hobie unhitches the dark horse, long leg swinging over the saddle, boots immediately placed inside the stirrups, hands tightly curled around the reins. And off he goes, leaving the railroad station in the dust, galloping incredibly fast.
He hears you yell his name just before you were abruptly cut off by a cloth shoved in your mouth. “Y/N!” Desperately calling for you, anger rolls off him like an avalanche in the winter. Taking his pistol out, with one hand he aims. But with the speed and the jostling around, he can't aim straight—especially if there's a chance of him shooting you instead.
The phantom pain around his neck aches.
Adrenaline rushes through him, he sees reason, aiming at the other man that isn't holding you. With a click, and a squeeze of the trigger—he shoots. The bullet whizzes by with a piercing sound, hitting the man's shoulder, turning his insides out, spraying warm crimson everywhere. The pained yell he let out would haunt your dreams. Moreso of the sorrow filled scream his companion let out.
With a thud, the limp body falls, his own horse running him over. You shut your eyes, mind crawling back to the one place you were happy staying forever in, Hobie's tiny flat back home. Back when afternoon tea consists of him rambling about some new invention he thought of, back when his hands would roam over your skin softly. Back when you held him close to you as he whispered promises in your ears.
Now it's all rough leather against your hand, jade eyes avoiding your own, mouth permanently etched into a frown. You know him, deep down the Hobie who would press feather light kisses on your lips is still in him. That deep down he has built a façade to survive this lawless land, and it's hard for him to break that carefully made façade in one day. You'd find his softness again, but you have to survive this first.
The horse you've been thrown on has finally stopped running. Your chest hurts from all the jostling, you were placed stomach first on the saddle—where the jagged leather uncomfortably rubbed against you and the spine of the horse hit you over and over again. The strange man yanks you away, now you're completely standing up with a gun pressing on your temple. A cry inches up to your throat, the cloth in your mouth chokes you. The man smells of cow shit and iron.
You watch as Bucky halts to a stop, dust flying around like the fireflies back home. The hat on Hobie's head hides the anger in his eyes, trigger finger itching to shoot again.
You cry, his name muffled by the cloth. You didn't mean to cry, but everything hurts. The warm barrel of the gun digs into your skull, whilst your hands grip the stranger's arm, your nails hopelessly trying to claw him away from you. The stranger smells like death.
“You killed my brother!” The man screams in your ears, breath rancid, warm air tickling your cheek. Amidst the loud rushing of your blood in your ears, you hear hurried footsteps behind you. They sound like there could be dozens of them, all pointing their guns at the man you loved. Still love, even now.
Hobie doesn't get off his horse. He sits still, frozen like a bronze statue. The only indication of him being alive was his labored breathing.
“What's happenin’?” A gruff voice asks from behind, thick southern drawl making him stand out from the rest of the gang. “Who's this, Jacky?”
“The broad, the broad from the telegram. Henry and I recognized her, thought we'd be rich. We saw her first!” Jacky acts like a child throwing a tantrum.
“Where's Henry then?” The older sounding man asks.
“With a bullet in him,” Hobie's voice is calm, cold and calculating, none of the warmth you were used to. “He's laying in a pool of his own blood a few ways from ‘ere. I bet the coyotes have him now.”
“You fucker!” Jacky presses the gun closer, you cry out in pain. Hobie's hand twitches. “I'll fucking shoot her! I swear I'd shoot!”
“Do you think that's worth it? Getting her blood all over your nice camp?” Hobie's unfeeling tone makes you weep harder. “Killin’ your mark? My mark?” He speaks commandingly, teeth gritted.
You look up to the heavens, blue sky engulfing your vision. A part of you wants to go home, a part that regrets running away in the first place. But there's a bigger part of you that's glad that you saw him again, even though you face your imminent death. It was worth it, you suppose. At least now your heart can rest after seeing him alive. You close your eyes when the pistol next to your head clicks.
“You talk big, a life for a life then.” A tear slides down your cheek. Hobie aims for your captor's head.
“Wait a damn minute!” You hear footsteps come from behind, the older man steps between them. “I know I remember ya from somewhere.” He tips his hat at Hobie, just in time for you to see him stare at you back intensely. “Yeah, I know ya. You're the one who took out Culver's men in one night, ain't ya? Thirty fuckin’ men all dead in one night.” Gasps are heard from the dozen or so people from behind. You hear whispers of the name ‘spider of the west’ behind you. “Christ, you're him.” With his hands right next to his head in surrender, he looks over his shoulder over to you, you see fear in the old man's eyes. “Let the little miss go, Jacky.”
“An eye for an eye, Arthur—!” Jacky pleads.
“Let her go or I'll be the one putting a bullet to your head, boy!” His scream has you flinching.
Jacky reluctantly lets you go, you almost crumple to your feet but you still stand, not wanting to give them the satisfaction. Your hands tremble as you take out the musty cloth inside your mouth.
Arthur walks over to you, hand ghosting over your back. “‘m sorry about that, sweetheart.”
You walk with your head held high. “Don't say sorry.” Your tear filled eyes flick over to the bearded man. “You’re not the one who hurt me.”
“Still, I'd like to say sorry on behalf of my belligerent men.” He looks up at Hobie who's still sitting on his horse passively. But the older man seems to know the deadly storm brewing behind those emerald eyes. “I apologize for the…miscommunication. If my men knew who you were, they wouldn't have tried anythin'. Jacky and his brother are too big for their breeches. ”
“The next time I see any of you on the road, I won't hesitate.” Hobie says, eyes bright, burning like greek fire.
“As is your right. You take care now.”
You silently lift yourself up on Bucky, with the help from Hobie, hand sliding away the moment you successfully tug yourself up behind him. Hobie doesn't see how vacant your stare is. You refuse to hold on to him, you're afraid of what he did, not of him. He thinks it's the other way around, it's his worst nightmare.
As you both gallop away, the last thing you heard above the hoofbeats is the unmistakable sound of a gun going off.
—
You're getting further and further away from the town you were in. The sun sets next to you as you look at the blood caked under your nails. You no longer shake or cry, just numb.
Buckeye passes by a lone graveyard, metal fences jagged and angled awkwardly. The dilapidated chapel cracks and falls under its own weight. Crows have made a home on the old tombstones, their cawing and beady black eyes raise the skin on your arms. The names of the dead are barely readable on the tombstones—rotten pots of flowers lay on the bed of graveyard soil, black petals going back to where they came from. You look away, afraid that if you don't, you'd see yourself among them.
The large rock formations loom overhead, jagged lines curved and sculpted by time. The holes dotted along its large walls act like a thousand eyes watching over you. Beady limestone eyes twitching, bleading, and crying. The sun fades away behind the horizon, cold replacing warmth, shadows replacing light.
Everything aches, your legs are still shaking from the encounter, the rustling tumbleweeds makes you jump. Eyes frantic, breath quickening, hands going numb—mind reeling back to the bloodied dead man.
“Stop.” You say too quietly. “Stop the fucking horse!”
Hobie reigns in Bucky, halting to a stop. You slid off ungracefully, knee hitting the ground as you scramble away. Bile rises in your throat, acid expelled out of your mouth because of your near empty stomach.
Familiar footsteps walk behind you, you wait for him to close the distance, to hold you close like he has always done five years ago. Yet, he stays far, stopping just a few feet away from your trembling body.
With shaky legs, you stand up, back still facing him. You wipe your mouth clean with your sleeve, Hobie's hand twitches for the handkerchief inside his pocket. He doesn't give it to you. He doesn't know why he didn't. Sniffing, you cough, eyes still stinging.
“Did they hit your head?” He finally says something, his words echoing in the vast empty space.
“No, I'm fine.” You pass by him, hands braced on Bucky's side.
“Y/N—”
You whirl around, “I said I'm fucking fine!” Heaving, chest aching, you rub your tired eyes. “I'm fine, don't worry about me, okay? Can we go?”
“We'll camp ‘ere.” With Hobie's statement, you look back at where you came from. Your captor's camp is miles away from you now, but you swear you can still feel the barrel of his gun digging into your skull, and the rotten smell of his mouth. “They won't follow us.”
“He knew you,” your eyes don't shine with the same optimism he was greeted with. “He looked scared when he remembered you. Hobie, W–what did you do to get him to fear you like that?”
“A lot of things you shouldn't worry about.” He walks past you, grabbing his pack from the saddle. “The less you know, the better.”
You nod, tears brimming in your eyes. He's not the old Hobie you remembered. He would've told you, he used to tell you everything. The gold ring in your finger feels heavy. And all the unsent letters you've hidden inside your skirt feels empty, the flowery words you've written inside are unrequited.
As day fades away to night, the moon shines bright as the stars twinkle above you. The warmth of the open fire settles into your fatigued bones, the pads of your fingers slowly regains feeling. The air is crisp, breeze blowing your lashes, cooling down the hot can of beans in front of you. The scene in front of you reminded you of the time you used to sneak out into the woods to meet with Hobie. He'd light a small fire and huddle close to you while you point out constellations. The beans are new, you wish they were bread instead, like the ones you used to nick from the kitchen.
This time, he sits across from you, far away from you as the fire cackles in between you both. The flames dance in his green eyes, a beautiful sight that you love—yet, you can't help but stay away from it.
“Cold?” He asks, hands properly warmed up from the hot can.
“No,” you answer flatly, legs tucked into you, chin placed atop your knees while you watch the embers flicker away into the dark. The cold helps, it helps numb you down.
“Alright.”
In another time he would've offered his coat, not just the shabby itchy blanket thrown over your shoulders. It all seems like a lifetime ago now.
You have no idea what caused him to leave without a goodbye, whether it was you or your unfeeling family, or for a pursuit of something better—but you know in those five years he has changed, you know he's still the Hobie you love, but you can barely recognize his heart anymore. You came to the new world for a new life with him, away from your predetermined life, because through and through you still love him. The promises he once whispered into your skin repeats in your head like a broken record. It's what's keeping you warm, sane, and in the present.
He eats silently, while you wallow into yourself. You've braved the ocean to see him, rode a dozen trains to get close to him, lost so much and gained so little just to see him alive. Was it all worth it? Worth all the calluses on your feet from all the walking? Worth all the tears you shed just to realize that maybe he doesn't love you anymore? That he fell out of love in those five grueling years?
Does he know that you still love him?
The man sitting across from you is a stranger. Not the one you promised your heart to.
“Hobie?” You call for him, heavy eyes staying on the ashes in front of you.
“Hmm?” He hums, barely audible for you. You silently wish that you don't get used to all his halfhearted replies. You need to hold on to a part of him from five years ago or you'll go crazy and run off into the barren lands of the west.
Against better judgment, against the screaming voice in your head, you finally look at him right in his eyes. “Why'd you leave?”
He quietly sighs, “I had to.” Those green eyes you love so much swirl with unsung emotion that you're not privy to. “Why'd you run away from home?”
“I had to.”
Hobie nods once.
You take your dinner in your cold hands, biting down the bitterness and the feeling. With an inhale, you smile through the pain of your realization. It's better not to dwell on it, or you might lose yourself. Instead, you take the opportunity to live in the moment with him—Relish your time with Hobie or whatever time you have left with him on the journey home.
Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, CW drinking, CW vomit mention, CW blood and mild injury, CW food mentions, co-worker AU, Mockumentary AU, part 4 of my mini series.
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“Surprise!” Your grin fades the second you see who’s at the door. “Oh, it’s you guys.”
The camera lights up your disappointed features. Together with the invasive filming equipment, the crew stands there with awkward smiles. Sighing, you pull the door open some more, admitting defeat.
“Just get inside and try to act like the wallpaper.”
The second you close the door behind the uninvited camera crew, you start to walk towards the modest kitchen; which they immediately follow you with their boom mic that’s the size of a meatball sub, and the ever annoying blinking red light from the cameras follows suit. You don’t love your job in the slightest, but you do need to keep it especially now.
“For someone making a documentary about a regular office job you guys love filming our private life.” You say in between gritted teeth.
Your shoulders sag, shaking your head as you wash your hands and continue mixing the sauce needed for the pasta. You could feel the producer’s question on the tip of her tongue as her fingers pause on the tablet screen mid-type.
“It’s MJ’s birthday.” You say with a glance at the camera, lips tugging into a more genuine smile. “I’ve decorated obviously, and I’m making her favourites before the guests arrive.” The producer opens her lips but you cut her off, unbothered and used to the cameras by now. “I thought you were MJ, hence the ‘surprise.’ Leave me alone, I’m way behind schedule. Do what you guys do, just don’t go into our rooms.”
The camera’s lens hovers around the kitchen, getting some establishing shots until a red and pink sheet cake gets the crew’s attention. It’s finely decorated with dainty edible flowers. The lenses immediately hone in on it, the squiggly writing that’s written in pink icing reads: “Happy Birthday to Mary Jane and Y/N!” In a second, the camera turns to you in shock, as you look like you were caught with your hand inside the cookie jar.
“Surprise?” Chuckling bashfully, you cover the cake and carefully place it inside the fridge. “We have the same birthday, sort of.” You start to explain as you pick at your nail unconsciously. “Her birthday is ahead of mine, a mere twenty four hour difference. So ever since we both found out about it, and became best friends because of it, we’ve been celebrating it together.” With every word you utter, your smile grows at the fond memory. “I know that making a cake for myself could be considered weird but I’m used to it! I actually like baking, I find it therapeutic.”
“I mean, who’s going to do it if not me, hm?” Shrugging, you go back to mixing. “Go and do your jobs, I can’t keep entertaining you all.”
With your permission, the crew walks around the modest flat. The lenses roam around from top to bottom. String lights shaped like butterflies decorate the curtain rods, adding some warm light inside. There are the classic streamers, red and pink, the same colours as the shared birthday cake. Shiny balloons are hovering just below the ceiling, numerous party poppers are on the table. And a pretty table setting laid atop red checkered fabric with a hodgepodge of plates and utensils, complete with an antique looking tea set, adds some character to the whole place. A bouquet of pink tulips sit in the middle of the table as the centerpiece, and various scented candles are placed on each corner of the flat. The place is immaculate, not a single speck of dust on the surfaces, and with the scent of freshly baked goods, the place feels like a cozy little cottage in the woods.
“You like it?” Your measured tone sounds from the side, and the camera pans over to you as you smile bashfully. “She’s been obsessed with the cottage core aesthetic ever since she saw those pretty picnic pictures online. I tried to capture that.” Eyes sparkling, you look around your handiwork. “I think I did pretty well, considering I was working on a strict budget lest I don’t make car payments.”
“You’ve got a car now?” Jared the camera man pipes up from behind the lens.
“Oh yeah, I forgot that you guys were on holiday for a while. Not gonna lie, two months away from filming was too long considering that it’s your job.” You blink at the camera as you meet with their knowing expressions. “Well, I still hate it that you’re all filming our lives outside of work— I didn’t miss you is what I’m saying.”
Jared smirks, hiding his grin behind the large camera. Rolling your eyes, you return to the kitchen to check on the oven, crouching in front of it as you take a peek. “So, was it tax related or lack of labor as to why you guys haven’t been—”
“You seem happier?” Jared asks, to the irk of the producer, who was supposed to be the one asking the questions. She lets it go when it’s a good segue to what she has in mind.
“Am I?” Your beaming smile adds warmth to the whole room, and it’s not from the sweet smelling cookies inside the oven. “I think I am, yeah.” Nodding, you stand back up to ice some red velvet cupcakes that are in the same shade as MJ’s hair. “I’m finally a regular at work. So no more being a temp or being so afraid of making a mistake. We celebrated it here actually with the whole group. I wish you guys could’ve filmed that, Lyla was standing on the table dancing with MJ.”
Chuckling, you continue. “Then I got my own car, second hand but it does the work and I don’t have to hitch a ride with Harry anymore.”
“What happened after the concert?” The dreaded question appears, and you let out an exhale, pausing from icing the cupcakes before composing yourself.
“Do we really have to talk about it? I mean, you guys were there, you filmed everything—” realization flickers on your face. “you just asked me that so you could hard cut back to two months ago, right—?”
2 months ago.
The camera peeks around a dumpster, its lenses whirls as it hones in on a sweaty Hobie puffing out cigarette smoke with fury as if he’s trying to burn down a medieval town. If it weren’t for the cool night air, the cameras would’ve picked up steam coming out of his ears.
Hobie paces around the empty parking lot, boots scuffing along the concrete. His fists are curled tightly, shaking as he drags his feet towards a pile of cardboard boxes. He’s not wearing a mic, but even without it, his angry murmuring gets picked up by the camera.
For a moment, he stops in front of some innocent boxes, jaw set, eyes boring into it like he’s about to set it on fire.
“Wanker!” He kicks the poor boxes as cardboard flies around. He then lets out a yell, muffled only by the denim jacket you gifted as he bites into it. “You stupid stupid arsehole! Tit for tat, huh—!” The toe of his foot hits something hard that was hidden underneath the pile of cardboard, letting out a metallic sound. Wincing, Hobie hops on one foot before yelling out again. “Motherfucker!”
His boot stomps, as if he’s trying to kill a skittering cockroach. Heaving, he finishes his tirade with a flourish, kicking a lone box into the darkness.
The cameraman leans closer, accidentally stepping on a can of empty soft drink, making the aggravated punk turn his head towards the noise.
His face falls, eyes wide with embarrassment as he tries to act casual by straightening his clothes. “Oh.”
The scene cuts to him sitting by his lonesome back in the fluorescent lit office. Glum is an overstatement, he looks like he lost his wallet, got his car stolen, and got kicked out of his flat. He might as well feel like it too based on his button up that’s all wrinkled, tie askew whilst his dress pants are a size smaller.
“I accidentally took my mate’s trousers.” Hobie says, heavy dark circles under his eyes as he kneads the space in between.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” The producer’s question got his eyes flicking over to the camera with a glare.
“Yeah, slept like a bloody baby, mate.”
“Who are you really mad at? At Harry or—”
“Harry, ‘m not mad at her. She jus’...” His eyes glaze over for a moment before blinking it away. “...got stuck in the middle of us.” Shaking his head, Hobie leans back on the chair. “I only agreed to this shit because you said you’d cut whatever you saw last night, yeah?”
“We understand. Why are you mad at Harry? They’re together, it’s not like she cheated on you—”
“She didn’t.” He enunciates his words. “And we’re not…together, not even close.”
“Then why are you acting like she did, when Harry didn’t do anything wrong?”
Hobie blinks, sucking in his teeth before sighing. “Ask him yourself.”
“Do you want to be with her?” Jared the cameraman oversteps his job description.
Hobie’s jaw tightens, hands flexing on his lap, ignoring the blinking light of the camera. “No more questions.” He yanks the mic off of his body, sound muffling as he stands up and tosses the equipment on the seat as he ignores their calls, saying that taking off the mic is grounds for getting a reprimand. A muffled, “don’t give a fuck.” Sounds out just as the door slams close.
The camera pans over to Harry's side of the office, his smiling eyes peek over the mouth of his coffee cup as he follows Hobie with his gaze.
The scene shifts back to the concert, the night before Hobie’s one on one and tantrum. The heavy bass has your chest thrumming, skin turning clammy, and eyes wide open as Harry pulls away from the kiss.
Heaving, lips still tasting him, your stomach lurches, a dull ache slithering around your belly. “Why did you do that?” You ask in a small and confused tone as cameras zoom in on your befuddled face.
Harry chuckles, shrugging. “I thought it was the right moment.” His hand finds your own, his palm is soft, with no rough callouses that your brain instinctively looks for. Weaving his fingers through yours tenderly, he squeezes you once. “I…really like you, Y/N, I really do.”
“I—” your stomach gurgles uncontrollably as you feel woozy from the claustrophobic place with all the sweaty bodies bumping into you.
“Of course you do!” MJ pipes up from your side, making you flinch as her arm is thrown over your shoulder, grinning widely, and answering for you. “And my girl likes you too, right?” She shakes you in place, and you don’t have an answer to her question.
Your stomach grumbles loudly, but not from hunger, aching from the bottom up as you feel saliva coat your mouth. You suddenly feel sweatier than normal, beads of sweat trailing on your back, sending goosebumps to appear on your arms.
“I—” The documentary crew has a front row seat to the inner conflict happening through your eyes. Your stomach gurgles again, eyes turning hazy, breath stuck in your throat. “I don’t feel so good,” Harry’s brows suddenly knit together in worry, from a happy one to concern within a half second. “the shawarma we had earlier— I think—!” Before you know it, you’re chucking out everything that was in your stomach down to the floors and onto MJ’s and Harry’s shoes.
“What the fuck, Y/N!” The redhead screeches, flinching away. Her face is as red as her hair, yelping and turning away from the scene in front of her.
The crowd around you parts in disgust, and just your luck, the music comes to an end on stage like it was on cue.
“Shit!” Harry backs off, shaking your sick off his shoes.
You groan, vision turning wobbly, clutching your stomach as you feel lightheaded. There’s a sudden rush of footsteps heading your way. Then a familiar pair of arms wrap around you, clutching you against a comfortable warmth and citrus scent laced with adrenaline and sweat.
“You okay, love?” You’re met with concerned eyes, and a palm patting your clammy face.
“Hobie?” You ask shakily before your eyes roll back and darkness embraces you.
The crowd gasps, making the crew feel like they’re filming a telenovela from the 90’s.
The only person happy about the situation is the producer, she immediately emails the company, asking for a season renewal before everything airs.
“Medic!” Hobie’s adrenaline helps him carry you off your feet and towards the medical tent outside and into cool fresh air.
—
Harry arrives back at the hospital, flowers in hand, and trying to avoid the inevitable.
The documentary crew finds him though, despite him hiding behind the bouquet of red roses.
“Come on, guys, not here too.” He speed walks away, only to be followed by the cameras. “Back off!” Pretending to lunge at them, Hobie appears just off frame, whistling loudly at the group, making them freeze in place.
“Took you long enough.” He addresses Harry, whilst the man fixes his hold on the flowers. “She hates roses, mate.” Stubbing the cigarette out, the punk casually leans against the stark white wall of the ambulance bay, eyes pointed right at the crew. “She said that you lot can stay as long as you’re outside the room, and no bloody mics.”
Harry scoffs, walking to the double doors, shoulder checking Hobie on his way in. “As if you’re her boyfriend.”
The cameras hone in on the pair, stepping back as if they’re filming a ticking time bomb.
Hobie simply smirks, but his eyes convey nothing but annoyance with a hint of anger. “As if you’re hers.”
“Fuck off, Hobie.”
Harry heads toward the elevators, thundering footsteps echoing around the hospital whilst Hobie follows close with the crew in tow. For once, he likes that they’re there with him, a third party that prevents him from punting his former best mate.
They both get on the elevator as the cameras have them front and center. This time though, you’re not standing in the middle of them. Just high tech cameras that could record evidence against either of them for viewing pleasure, or for the court.
“How is she?” Harry’s the first one to cut the silence as the elevator whirls to life. It’s old based on the way it lurches harshly before moving.
“You would know if you visited.” Hobie has his hands casually inside the denim jacket you made, perhaps to keep his fists beside him and not slamming against the brunette’s face.
“Calm down, it’s not like she’s dying.”
“Whatever you fuckin’ fed her yesterday made her feel like it, dumbarse.” Snickering, his eyes shine with mischief. “I’d get sick too if you kissed me.”
Harry’s eyes roam around the punk’s attire, scoffing with a roll of his eyes when he notices that he’s still wearing the same clothes as last night’s concert. “I can smell you from here, Hobie.”
“I smell like hopes and dreams, bruv.”
“Ah, that’s why you smell like shit—”
Hobie clicks his tongue, jaw set as he reels himself in. “You still haven’t changed, still an arsehole through and through.”
“What are you even doing here, Hobie?”
“Watching over her like a friend should.”
“Yeah, sure, a ‘friend.’” Harry dramatically makes quotation marks with his fingers. “Just like last time, huh?” His eyes knowingly glance at Hobie, sending him a death glare worthy of the camera lens cracking. “What, weren’t you satisfied last time?”
“Is this what it is then?” Hobie steps forward, seething, eyes narrowed right at him. “Revenge for last time. I’ve said my piece years ago, mate, it wasn’t what you think it was.”
Scoffing, Harry shakes his head with a snicker. “Sure, mate, that’s what it was. You were looking inside her mouth for your gum with your lips or what?”
“Fuck you, Harry. You ruined our chances with the agent jus’ for that. And you know I wouldn’t do that to you, she was the one who—”
“Yeah, place the blame on the woman I loved, and not on yourself. A classic Hobie Brown move—!”
The elevator doors ding open, the familiar scent of the hospital wafts around the two, as the opened doors reveal Yuri and Ned waiting by it with wide eyes. The cameras pan over to them, immediately stepping off the elevators in case things turn sour. They really don’t want their cameras broken when fists and roses start flying around.
“Are we playing seven minutes in heaven like when we were kids, gentlemen?” The ravenette asks, a neat brow raised right at them while her hand stops the doors from closing.
“More like seven minutes in hell.” Ned glances at the crew with pity. “They didn’t throw hands yet, right?”
Jared shakes the camera like it’s saying no. Meanwhile Hobie and Harry avoid each other’s eyes.
“I like you, weirdo.” Yuri chortles, making the cameraman blush, she makes space for the two live wires to get off the elevator.
Harry leaves first, nudging Hobie’s shoulder harshly with a thud, and a glare thrown right at the band. He stomps over to the nurse’s station, asking for your room number.
“What a ray of sunshine.”
“Good on you for keeping your cool, Hobs.” Ned says, clutching his shoulder gently. “You are cool, right? Or do we have to restrain the two of you again?”
“I call dibs on tying you both down. I know where to get heavy duty rope.” Yuri adds, a hand clasped on Hobie’s elbow in a subtle move for keeping him away from the brunette. “And if you two end up killing each other, do I have your permission to go for Y/N? You know, a shoulder to cry on.”
Yuri’s joke flies over his head. Hobie exhales a bated breath as he watches Harry knock on your door, peeking inside with a smile as Hobie hears your voice from the inside. The cameras perfectly capture the look on his face. Dismay, longing and sadness seen through the recording.
“Hey,” Ned nudges him awake. “We’re going home, you should come with us for some fresh clothes and breakfast.”
The punk sighs with a frown. “Do I smell that bad?”
“Nah,” Yuri reassures with a genuine smile. “You seriously don’t smell bad, you just look like a raccoon who decided to cross a busy road.” That earns a soft chuckle from the punk, instinctively wiping at his melting eyeliner that stains his fingers. “Besides, she’ll be fine, it’s just food poisoning. The doctor said she can come home this afternoon and you’ll be refreshed by then to pick her up.”
“I think she already has a ride, Yuri.” Hobie says with a deep frown, tone small as his eyes cast on your door.
“Knowing Harry, they’ll last less than a month give or take.” Ned presses the elevator call button again, arms crossed as he flicks his eyes over to the camera before looking at his best mate’s back with worry.
“That’s not it, you know that’s not it.” Shaking his head, Hobie’s concern grows as he swallows thickly. “I don’t want her to get caught in our fightin’. I don’t want her gettin’ hurt because of us.”
Yuri nods in understanding, her dark eyes glance over at Ned as the doors ding open. “Give her some credit, she’s tougher than she looks.”
“Harry will break her heart, I know it.” Hobie utters through his teeth as he reluctantly steps back into the elevator together with Ned and Yuri.
“Well, if he does, she has friends to take care of her. That includes us if she’s still not hung up about the pub.” Ned says as he pushes the button to close the doors, leaving the documentary crew behind. “Or there’s a chance that he actually likes her. We know Harry, he falls hard just like you do.”
Hobie’s chest aches at Ned’s words that strike him where it hurts most.
“You gonna stop him then?” Yuri asks, addressing Hobie without missing a beat, arms crossed over as she glares at the hospital room, where you reside.
The crew could see that the band has grown fond of you like you’re their own during the time they’ve spent with you while you’re in hospital.
Before the doors close, the lenses zoom in on Hobie’s trembling hand, not getting his answer as the metal doors shut, cutting his response.
—
“Harry?” You ask hoarsely, eyes darting towards the small window on the hospital room door, spotting the unmistakable camera peeking inside. You’re too weak to protest, skin still clammy, throat throbbing, and stomach rumbling with ache.
“You sound disappointed.” He chuckles nervously, clutching the bouquet close to him.
“No, I— I just thought you were MJ.” Your lips smile reluctantly. “She hasn’t stopped by.”
“Maybe she’s just busy.”
“Yeah, probably.” You can feel the camera on you, you just hope that their mics can’t pick up any sound through the door so you just try to keep a neutral face from now on.
“How do you feel?” His voice is carried in the sterile air.
“Better, my fever’s down and I haven’t been to the bathroom in a couple of hours. The doctors said it was food poisoning.” Your eyes dart towards the bottles of gatorade on the nightstand. “Hobie and his band helped.”
Harry frowns before gesturing towards the empty seat next to your bed, you nod and he smiles softly before sitting down. Placing the flowers on his lap as he seems to not know what to do with his hands. “I’m sorry about—”
“I’m sorry.” You simultaneously speak at the same time as him. “Sorry, you go first.” Clearing your throat, your fingers absentmindedly scratch at the tape around the dextrose needle.
“No, you go first.” His eyes look around you, from the hospital gown and the medicine hooked up to your hand, there’s guilt in his swirling eyes.
“Okay,” it takes a bit more courage to look into his green eyes. “I’m sorry that I ruined our date by getting sick all over your shoes and embarrassing you.”
Harry smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I have more shoes. And don’t worry, it didn’t ruin the date, it wasn’t that embarrassing.”
“It’s fucking embarrassing. I mean, you kissed me and I immediately puked in front of everyone.” You let out a humourless laugh. “If it was me I’d tuck tail and leave town.”
“Do you want me to leave town?” Teasing, the crepe paper under his palm crinkles. “I don’t know if that’ll help much.”
Your fist bunches up the blanket over your legs. “I’m trying to say that it wasn’t you. It—It was the food we had.”
“Good to know that it wasn’t my breath.”
“Harry—”
“I’m joking, princess.” Beaming at you, he scooches his seat closer despite the sound grinding at his teeth. “We shouldn’t have had those suspicious looking shawarma on the way to the concert.”
“Shit, are you okay? I forgot to ask since you ate it too.” Your hand reaches for him but you retract it away last minute to his dismay.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I had the veggie one, remember?”
Head falling on the pillow that still smells like Hobie’s cologne when he fluffed it up for you, you close your eyes in embarrassment. “It was the meat.”
“It was probably human.”
“Harry.” You say in between chortles. “Not funny.”
“A little funny.” He looks at the bouquet before handing it gently over to you. “I heard you don’t like roses, but it was too late for me to exchange them. I promise the next time will be whatever your favourites are.”
You smile, inhaling the sweet scent as he gazes at you tenderly that has your heart beating loudly. You’re just glad that there’s no heart monitor connected to you. “I like these enough.”
“Yeah, but it’s an apology bouquet, next time, it’ll be a bouquet that means differently and I want that to be your favourite.”
“There’s still a next time? Why?”
Shrugging, elbows on the bed, his eyes soften as the early morning sunlight filters inside. “Just cause I want to impress you. And say sorry for not visiting earlier.”
“I know that, I mean the latter I know of because you probably had to shower after smelling like my dinner.” It takes a lot of bravery for you to let out the next words when your pillow smells like citrus and soap. When it smells like Hobie. “But why the former? Why bother trying to impress me when I’m just me?”
“That’s exactly why.” Harry’s tone lowers an octave, hand placed beside you, not holding onto you nor getting closer, just laying there with apprehension. “You’re you, I like you, and after what happened, it’s alright if you don’t want to continue this. I don’t expect you to like me just because you feel like you have to.”
“I feel like you barely know me.”
“I’d like to get to know you better, if you’d let me.” His green eyes hone in on yours. “If you have someone else in mind, I wouldn’t ask again. It was…worth a try. At least I got to hang out with you. You were really fun to be with, I wish you know that.”
His words go straight at your heart.
Hobie comes to mind. But you saw how MJ looked at him, and how easily they talk to each other like they’ve known each other longer than you have. They’re compatible together, cut from the same cloth while you’re not even in the same fabric shop as them. He feels out of reach, and just like with MJ, you’ll just be someone who stands behind them, not beside them. You’re fine with that when you’ve gotten used to the sidelines. Used to being the sidekick that holds her guitar case when she runs off at a party, used to follow her around like a lost puppy when she’s the longest— the only friend, who stuck by you this whole time. In time, it’ll be like that with Hobie, it’s inevitable when you’ve seen it with MJ. It’s a hard pill to swallow, the fading friendship when you two used to spend time together with every hour of every day. When she stopped wearing her friendship necklace, you kept wearing yours, hoping that one day you’ll see your best friend wearing it again. That one day, the half hearts will be full again.
Hobie might not be like her, that you won’t be in his shadow, but there’s a possibility that you will. You don’t know him enough, just like how you don’t know Harry enough to pass that judgement. You can’t let your heart choose for you, even when your soul heeds the same. You don’t want to live through that again, especially to someone you might end up loving deeply, more than a co-worker, or a friend would. It’ll shatter your heart, just like the first time you saw her without the necklace she has worn for ten years. It’s just a crush, and like all crushes, you’ll get over it.
Harry might not be your first choice, or your only choice, but he’s right there, offering his heart to you on a platter. You won’t be in his shadow, a gamble on your part to think that way, but he’s not out of reach unlike Hobie, who seems to be a league above your own. Best of all, MJ doesn’t have her eye on Harry, that you won’t end up losing to her, or losing her friendship completely if you try to pursue Hobie. So you take Harry’s hand, squeezing it once before loosening your grip.
You just want to be happy, even if it means settling.
“We… I feel like we went too quickly, Harry. But I’d like to try again.” You swallow down the doubts you have for your choice. “Just promise me that if this doesn’t work, you won’t ice me out. You’re a great friend, I don’t want to lose that because we tried.”
“Okay.” His whole demeanor relaxes, a weight lifted off his shoulders. “I promise. How about this…” A hand reaches for you, waiting for you to shake it. “We start over. My name’s Harry Osborne, I’m a sales rep, I like race cars and gelato.”
With a smile, eyes shining, you take his hand, shaking it politely. “It’s nice to meet you, Harry,” you tell him your name, stifling a giggle when he nods all serious like. “I’m a quality assurance agent, I like baking, painting, and my favourite flowers are tulips, pink ones.”
“Tulips, pink ones, got it.”
“We’re okay?”
“Better than okay.” Smiling, his touch lingers for a second longer before he lets go. “I’ll get rid of the cameras.” Standing up, he’s stopped by your hand wrapped around his wrist.
“No, stay for a bit, I already forgot about them.”
Grinning from ear to ear, Harry sits back down. “What’s your favourite book?”
Your chuckles echo around the hospital bed as the two of you continue to chat, the world outside forgotten as the scent of roses waft around your senses.
—
The scene shifts back to the apartment that smells like cake and over to you as you wash the icing off your hands.
“They’ll be here any minute.” Your frantic mumbling gets picked up by the boom mic. “Can you guys at least make yourself useful by helping me set up the food table?”
Jared shakes the camera like it’s him saying no.
“Great, fantastic.” With panicked footsteps, you carefully haul the food onto a long table. The cameras follow your movements as you carry an empty punch bowl.
“How are you and Harry?” The producer asks, making you grate your teeth.
You accidentally drop the bowl with a thud, immediately regretting it when you realize that you might’ve cracked it. “So you can keep asking me questions but you can’t help? Some guests you are.”
The group looks at each other, as if waiting for someone to ask you again. Jared’s sad eyes catch you off guard as your palm roams around the glass for any cracks.
“Fine, I get it, it’s your job.” Sighing, you gently rest the bowl again, right next to a platter of paella. “Harry and I are—”
There’s a knock at the door, and your eyes immediately widen in a panic, looking down at yourself as you wince.
“Shit, I’m not even ready yet.” Your gaze darts over to your large bubble coat hanging on the coat rack. You bolt over to it, snatching and quickly putting it on over your stained apron and jumper. “Hold on, MJ!”
“Suprise—!” Hand grasping the doorknob, you open the door, grinning wildly. Instead of your smile falling, it softens. “Hey, you’re early.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” Hobie’s unmistakable voice sounds out from behind the door from where the cameras capture the scene. “I got the ice jus’ like you asked.”
“Thank you, you’re a life saver.” Chuckling, you open the door wider, revealing the crew waiting in the living room. “I thought punks are always fashionably late.”
“It’s actually punk to be early—” Hobie grimaces at the sight of the crew. “Here too, really?”
“I just ignore them.” Shutting the door behind Hobie, your quick movements faze him a little as you help with carrying the package of ice. “Coats over there, Hobie, I’ll put this in the freezer.”
Smiling, his eyes roam around the cozy flat. “Is your thermostat fucked, love? I can fix it for you.”
“What, why?” You ask from the kitchen, head peeking around the doorway as the rumble of ice gets shoved inside the small freezer.
“Or are you just cold?” He asks, shrugging off his leather coat, revealing your gifted denim jacket underneath it. The cameras look him up and down like it’s fashion week. He’s wearing a more toned down version of his concert outfit, less leather and fishnets, and more of a simple plaid long sleeve that’s not buttoned all the way that shows off his mismatched silver chains around his neck, and a pair of skinny black jeans over leather platforms.
The lens pans over to his torso knowingly, lingering over the denim jacket, before Hobie glares at the camera as if his gaze would crack the glass whilst he shrugs the jacket off and hangs it on the coat rack.
“Oh,” you look down at yourself, too comfortable in the bubble coat. “No, I was trying to hide the fact that I’m not dressed yet.”
“Couldn’t fool me, I thought the party’s theme was winter.” His eyes capture the twinkling lights as he beams at the checkered table cloth.
“It’s cottage core actually.” Crossing the distance, the camera crew stands by the side to let the scene unfold like they’re filming a nature documentary. “You like what I’ve done to the place?”
“It’s brilliant.” Hobie turns his head to look at you, finding that you’re leaning against the table casually as you smile bashfully at him. “You’re brilliant.”
“I try.” You say in a shy tone, cheeks aflame.
“You forgot one thing though.”
“Shit,” your face falls. “what?”
“Music.” Sauntering over to the record player, he finds that your laughter is better than any music MJ has on display. “MJ listens to country?” He asks whilst perusing the collection.
“She had a phase. You should see her cowboy boots.”
He snorts, finding a soft jazz record that he recognises with a smile. “Don’t think I want to, lovie. Can I?”
“Yeah, good choice.” The wink he sent your way makes your heart leap. You watch as his hands gently put the record on like it’ll break in half. How his fingers glide along it, almost caressing, soft and tender. Calloused fingers dragging along the glass as he opens the player, lips pursing together, piercings glimmering, throat bobbing— “I need to get ready.” You clear your throat, unfurling your fists and relaxing your stance. Crush, yeah right. “Will you be okay here?”
“Yeah, make yourself prettier.” The smile on his face almost has you bumping against the edge of the table. “I’ve got the knobhead crew to keep me company.”
“That’ll make a good band name if you change the c in crew to a k.” You joke as you walk backwards into your room.
“Brilliant as always. I’ll tell the lads to change ours to that.”
“Don’t!” Giggling, you shut the door behind you before you could get lost in his eyes.
Hobie feels Jared the camera man’s eyes on him. “What? Fuck off, bruv.”
“What was that, Hobie?” Your muffled voice sounds out through the closed door.
“Nothin’. Did you cook all of these yourself?” Walking around, his stomach grumbles at the sight of the full table with all the fixings. From deviled eggs to tiny meat pies, you’ve got it all.
“Uh, no, I’m not that brilliant. I ordered most of it, but I did bake all the desserts.”
Hobie eyes a piece of sugar cookie decorated with flowers on it, smiling as it reminds him of the holiday cookies you made for the work holiday party.
“You can have some if you’re hungry.”
“You read my mind.” He carefully grabs a pink tulip cookie, biting into the treat with a smile.
“It’s easy, you’re always hungry.”
“‘m a growin’ boy, love.” Continuing to walk around, he sees some dirty dishes left on the sink. He finishes the cookie in one bite, wiping the crumbs, and folding his sleeves, he starts to wash it up whilst Jared gives him an approving nod.
“If you grow up some more you’ll be seven feet tall.”
“Yeah, I can finally reach the tea you hide at work.”
“It’s because Peter keeps drinking it all!”
“It’s not jus’ Peter.” Grinning, he rinses the plates, and wipes down the side of the sink.
“Hey! You owe me a box, Hobs.”
His chest warms up from the nickname. “I’ll get you a whole box, don’t worry.”
There’s another knock on the door just as when Hobie dries his hand on a towel that he flings on his shoulder.
“Shit, I’m not done yet.” You hiss through the door, floorboards creaking like you’re jumping on the old wood.
“I’ll get it, it’s probably the band. They had to stop by a shop to get the beer.” Hobie walks the short distance over to the front door, peeking over the window beside it to check who it is.
“Thank you!”
The lenses capture the perfect moment when his smile falls.
When you don’t hear the door creak open, you call for him. “Who is it? Is it MJ’s friends?”
“No,” he chokes out, fist gripping the doorknob as he opens it with a creak. “Osborne.”
“Brown.” With a raised brow and a sneer, Harry pushes him to the side to enter the flat. The bouquet crinkles in his hand, juggling to take off his coat and hold onto the flowers. “It’s me, princess!”
“Hi, Harry! I’ll be out in a few, just getting ready.”
Harry meets with Hobie’s glare. “You need help with a zipper in there?” The smirk he has on is just begging to be punched. And as the camera captures the whole scene, they think that it’ll come true.
“Nope, I got it.”
“That’s good, I didn’t want you to get stuck in your dress again like last time.” To add salt to Hobie’s wound, Harry says it with his whole chest. Your giggles twist the knife, as Hobie tries to act casual, leaning against the door.
“Are those flowers for me, mate?” The punk snidely remarks.
“Nope, I remember that tulips aren’t your thing. You’re more of a venus flytrap kind of guy.”
“Those things could kill rats, don’t they? Better not come near one, mate.”
“I didn’t even know you were invited.” Harry scoffs out.
“MJ’s my friend too.”
“Too, that’s funny.” The brunette steps forward, and the camera crew fears what would happen next. The soft jazz is ignored as the tension thickens in the air.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“What I mean is that you’ve got a habit of taking what’s not yours, Hobs.” Poison drips from Harry’s tongue.
“She is not a fuckin’ thing to have, Harry—”
Before the heated argument could end up with fists and food flying, the bedroom door creaks open, and you step outside with a bashful smile and sparkling eyes. You look happy, and both men could feel it too as the tension fades away just from you stepping foot inside the room.
“Is this okay?” Biting your lip, you shyly raise your arms to the side in an attempt to show off a dress you bought from Yuri’s recommendation. The fabric hugs you in all the right places, soft blue complimenting your very being, and the checkered pattern fits the theme of the party. “Is it too much? Yuri said I look like a hot little bo peep. Her words, not mine.”
Jared’s face is all red, not from how you look, but from how he’s desperately trying to stifle his laughter as both men pause in place, argument forgotten, and eyes glued onto you. They’re glad that they brought two cameras, one to capture the bead of sweat trickling down Harry’s temple, and another to film the way Hobie’s throat bops up and down.
To the cameras, they look like two bumbling idiots trying to find their words. In your eyes, they look like they’re just staring at you.
Chuckling nervously, brows furrowed, you bounce on the heels of your shoes. “Maybe I should change—”
“No.” Both men say at the same time in the very same volume. A feat in itself when they were trying to combust the other with just their gazes a few moments ago.
“I mean— you look beautiful, love.” Hobie clears his throat, unfurling his fists. Seeing you in nothing but thick coats and office wear through the early months that he has known you has done his brain in when it never thought that it’s possible to see you in anything else. He gazes at you with nothing but respect, but he can’t help his honesty. “Really beautiful.”
“Really?” Your eyes sparkle even more, arms crossed over your chest from the shyness. You’re trying to get out of your shell even more now, and by god you’re going to do it whether you like it or not. And it’s definitely not because Yuri would be all pouty if you didn’t wear the dress she helped pick for you. “Thank you, Hobie.”
“Fucking gorgeous, princess.” Harry always finds a way to one up Hobie as his arms open, walking closer to you. “Absolutely gorgeous!” Hugging you, and to Hobie’s surprise, you hug back with a chuckle.
“Thank you, Harry.” Eyes crinkling at the corners, Harry pecks your cheek fondly.
Hobie says all the synonyms for beautiful inside his head as he turns towards the camera with a flat look. Hand occupied in favour of numbing the hurt away with some cookies.
“I got you flowers.” Harry says with a smile as Hobie tries to deafen his words by chewing loudly.
“You did? Why?” Hobie could hear your grin from your tone.
“I just want to. Can’t I just get you flowers?”
“It’s technically not my birthday yet.”
“Don’t worry about it, I got MJ a present too. She won’t feel left out.” Hobie gets an unfortunate peek at Harry’s palm rubbing up and down your back.
“That’s kind of you.” And he gets a very unfortunate view of the cameras filming the whole scene with him in the background like some schmuck. “You smell nice. New cologne?”
“Yeah, it’s lemon lime. I know how much you like the smell.”
The scene shifts to Hobie smoking a cigarette outside your flat all alone as he talks to the camera.
“Lemon lime,” scoffing, he blows out smoke. “how pretentious, it’s just bloody citrus. What a dickhead—”
It comes back to inside the flat where you’re smiling at something Harry whispered to you. Before your attention gets taken by a lone Hobie unwrapping a cupcake and devouring the whole thing in one big bite.
“Hobie, you’ll ruin your appetite.” Giggling, you unwrap yourself from Harry’s arms to his obvious dismay as you smile brightly at Hobie. “We have plenty of food.” Your palm unconsciously wraps around his elbow, Hobie almost chokes but hides it well.
He pauses mid chew, your sweet smelling perfume wafting over his senses like ambrosia on his tongue. And it’s not because of the red velvet cupcake.
“Yeah, Hobs, pace yourself.” Harry’s comment is more of an annoying tease compared to your genuine one.
“Try the deviled eggs after this,” you whisper to him with a smile as you also grab a cupcake to join him. “I used premium seasoning.”
“Careful, pirates would kill for that, lovie.” Joking, it earns a genuine giggle from you as icing coats your top lip. He resists the urge to wipe it for you.
“Hold on, you’ve got somethin’—”
“Can I have a cupcake too?” Harry interrupts just as when Hobie forgot that he was even there in the first place.
“Of course.” You grin at them both with fondness. “The icing is cream cheese—”
There’s another knock at the door. The camera’s attention flings towards the source as the three of you look at the door. You gasp quietly, placing the cupcake down gently as you lock eyes with the two.
“Remember, you have to scream ‘surprise,’ okay?”
“Princess, hold on!” Harry takes you by the hand and carefully wipes the icing off of your top lip carefully with a paper napkin. “There you go.”
“Thank you.” Excitement flows through you as you practically skip towards the door.
Hobie glares at the side of Harry’s smug face.
Gripping the doorknob, you whip it open excitedly and instead of your red headed best friend, you’re met with the rest of Hobie’s band.
“Hi! You guys made it.” You open the door wider for the trio to saunter inside.
“We’ve got the booze, gorgeous!” Yuri’s smile widens when she spots your handpicked dress. “Looking as radiant as ever! I knew you’d be!” Clasping your shoulders, she pecks your cheek chastely. “I don’t think I’m the only one who sees that though.” Sending you a wink, you’re left at the door with a lopsided grin.
“Where do you want these, Y/N?” Ned asks as James helps him carry a whole case of beer inside.
“The kitchen please.”
“Yuri’s right, you look bangin’” James whistles lowly, earning a smack over the head from Ned.
“Why don’t you compliment someone normally?” He chastises as they lug the case towards the kitchen.
“Where’s the lunch club? I thought they were coming—?”
“Present!” Pav appears from the side, hand in hand with Gayatri. “We’re not late right?”
“Nope, you two are early actually.” Making way for them to get inside, the small flat is starting to feel like a party with everyone starting to arrive.
“Apparently not as early as Hobie.” Gayatri snickers, whispering the words as she half hugs you in greeting. “I’ve known him for years and I’ve never seen him be first at a party.”
“Really?” You glance towards Hobie as he leads the band over to the food table, their eyes widening at the variety.
“Really.” She emphasizes with a smirk. “Anyway, Gwen and Miles are gonna be fashionably late. They have a late class today.”
“That’s alright, I hope this isn’t too much of a bother.” You utter shyly as you shut the door.
“You’re never a bother, Y/N.” Pav adds as he shares a sweet look with Gaya. “Besides, Gaya never turns down free food—”
“Alright, let’s go.” Tugging him away by the hand, Pavitr laughs towards the others. “Thanks for the invite, Y/N!”
Smiling, you inhale deeply, putting on a braver face as you start to host the party. You guess everyone else has to wait for MJ and her friends to arrive.
Before you could join the others, you feel an unmistakable hand around your wrist. “Harry? Everything good?”
The camera’s attention turns towards the two of you, mics picking up the hushed tones. While the other camera hones in on Hobie’s face as he turns away in favour of shoving a whole cupcake inside James’ mouth, hiding behind his laughter.
“Yeah, just a quick question.” Leaning close, his hand drops down from your wrist to your hand, clasping it gently. “Is everyone from work invited?”
“Not really, I tried to invite Lyla but she said she had an influencer thing, and Miguel said he’d be too busy. Jessica couldn’t come either because she’s on maternity leave, and Peter couldn’t find a babysitter.”
His brows knit together in confusion. “Why are they invited? Do they know MJ?”
“Yeah actually, they know her through the band. And I wanted a few of my friends here too.”
His hold on you loosens as he leans back. “Ah, I was just wondering, I thought I’d see Miguel here.”
“I invited him to be polite.” Shrugging, you share a smile with Harry. “Can you imagine him actually coming?”
“I physically can’t.” Chuckling, you hear another knock at the door.
“That’s probably Miles and Gwen, hold on.” Leaving his side, you head to the door to open it. Lo and behold, you see the man himself. “Miguel?”
He looks like a fish out of water as he holds a wrapped gift tucked under his arm. “Am I too early?”
The camera zooms in on the look on your face. “No, you’re just in time. Come in.”
As the boss steps inside, his mere presence alone has the whole room quieting down. Harry almost chokes on his drink, as the office group stares at him with their mouths agape. The band looks him up and down, almost sizing the bigger man up. Miguel doesn’t back down or hides within himself from the stares though.
“I see that the cameras are following you too.” He says, narrowed eyes darting from face to face.
You look at them with an awkward smile. “You can put the present over there at the coffee table.”
Miguel’s tall and large figure makes him look like a giant inside the modest flat. “Did you decorate the place yourself?” He asks, probably just trying to make conversation as the rest of the party gazes at him in the corner of their eyes.
“I did.” Smiling genuinely and not out of politeness, you bounce on the heels of your feet. “The theme is cottagecore.”
“Ah, I’ve heard of that before from my daughter.”
Gesturing towards the couch, you invite him to sit down. “I didn’t know you have a daughter. Do you want something to drink?”
“Yeah, she’s with her mother. Just a beer please.”
“Okay, be right back, Mr. O’Hara.”
“It’s just Miguel when we’re not at the office, Y/N.” He corrects with a gentler tone.
“Right, Miguel.” Chuckling, you head towards the kitchen as you feel eyes on you.
Gaya raises a teasing brow, while Pavitr stifles a chuckle at your predicament. While the cameras are stationed in each corner of the flat, recording every interaction without missing a single moment. Biting your lip, you crouch down to retrieve a bottle of beer.
You felt him before you heard him speak.
“You’ve got quite the balls to invite big man ‘ere, love.” Hobie chuckles as he casually leans against the doorframe with a beer in hand. His sleeves are still rolled up to his elbows, the spider tattoo right on it is in full display as he taps the bottle, clinking his ring against the glass rhythmically.
Shaking your head with a chortle, you stand up with the bottle, eyes narrowed at Hobie. “I didn’t even know he’d actually show up.” You whisper back to him as you look for the bottle opener.
“C’mere.” Gesturing with two fingers, Hobie subtly smiles at you as you walk closer. He takes the bottle and opens it expertly with one of his chunky rings. The cap pops open, and you find yourself staring right at his lean fingers. “There, you don’t need a bottle opener when you have me.”
When he meets with your eyes, you both falter. “I should have you beside me at all times then.” You accidentally blurt out your thoughts, cheeks searingly hot.
“For opening bottles you mean?” Hobie gingerly knocks the bottle against your arm. He hopes that you can’t hear his thudding heart.
You blink, “yeah, for the bottles of course.”
His pierced brows rise as he hands you the bottle. “Don’t let Miguel have too much.”
“Shit, yeah, he gets chatty after his, what, fourth drink?”
“Yeah,” Hobie’s eyes glance down at your smiling lips briefly. “Can I ask you somethin’?”
Your heart beats quickly. “Sure.”
“Are you happy?” The toe of his boot nudges your heel gently. Whilst his breath hitches in his throat from anticipation. It’s a loaded question, but he needs to know, because if you are, that you’re happy with Harry, he’d leave you alone and simply be a friend, even when his heart tells him otherwise.
Your eyes roam around his handsome face, his piercings shine under the crappy lighting of the small kitchen, and his irises are fully blown out, the size of saucers as he gazes right at you. Still unbeknownst to the heavy question that’s laden with layers that you’re not privy to. You just think that he’s simply asking if you’re satisfied with where you are. Not what his mind thinks.
“Yeah, better than I was before actually.” Smile widening, you clink the bottle against the metal button of his flannel. “Are you happy?”
Inhaling deeply, he smiles back, albeit it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“You guess?” Raising a brow, there’s more knocking at the front door, but you ignore it in favour of Hobie. “Are you okay?”
“Christ, you read me pretty well, hm, lovie?”
“Lonely hearts connect with other lonely hearts, I suppose.”
“I’ll be alright, I promise. It’s nothin’ I can’t handle.” His longing feels like it could kill him, but if you’re happy, even in the arms of another, he’s happy.
“You know where to find me, Hobie.” Your hand instinctively reaches for his arm, grasping tenderly. “If you want to talk, or simply have someone, I’m here.”
He feels fucking ill. Irritated, frustrated, defeated, heart broken. But he doesn’t face it, burying it down, just so you never feel it through his clammy skin. Yuri’s right, and he hates to admit it but he falls just as hard as his former band mate. Or you just have that effect on him. Either way, you slip by his fingers, and he lets you anyway. He drowns his longing as he takes a swig of his drink.
“Hopefully with a case of these.”
Snorting, you let go of his arm to his disappointment. “Careful, we don’t want you calling out crows outside.”
“‘m not a lightweight, love. Go before Miguel gets antsy.” His eyes flick towards the living room as more people have found their way inside and joined the party. “Yuri’s chattin’ him up so you better get there before he hires her.”
“Miles and Gwen are here too.” Your eyes shine brighter in the fluorescent lights. And Hobie can’t help but smile at the sight. “Please join the party, Hobie. Don’t mope around the kitchen all by yourself, okay?”
“For you, sure, love.”
“Good, because I have no idea how to be charming.”
“You think ‘m charmin’?”
Rolling your eyes, you head out into the fray with a chuckle. “I know that you already know that.”
He feels eyes on the back of his head, turning towards the source, where a cameraless Jared stands in the corner with a half eaten red velvet cupcake in hand.
“I didn’t see or hear anything.” The man says with his mouth full.
Hobie manages a small smile, handing him a napkin wordlessly before walking out of the kitchen.
Hobie follows behind, parting ways as he heads towards another band that he knows through the birthday girl. His eyes hover around you as you glide around the room, being a good host.
The party is in full swing, music bumping and reverberating through the walls thanks to James, who has made himself the DJ with the bluetooth speakers he brought. People compliment the food and the overall vibes, as you feel your heart fill with warmth for a job well done. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, even Miguel, who has managed to make a few friends with the rest. The food starts to dwindle, the drinks lessening, and yet the birthday girl still hasn’t arrived, up to the point where you had to call her several times but you’re only met with her voicemail.
As people start to get antsy and bored when they’re full of food and wobbly from the drinks, you panic and even start to call every person that could possibly know where MJ is. Hobie and the band help you by calling up pubs and places where she could be in. And with paranoia kicking in, you started to call hospitals and precincts to cover all your bases. Harry tries to ease your worry, but you don’t feel any better until you see her alright.
The clock starts to tick to midnight, your birthday coming up sooner and yet your best friend, the one you always share a birthday celebration with even before you hit puberty is still a no show. The documentary crew grows bored with every hour that goes by. Biting your nails, people start to leave, giving you apologies and quick hugs for leaving before MJ could even arrive. They cite that it’s a Monday the next day, that they’ve got school or work, and you completely understand, you’d leave too. But you don’t understand MJ right now, especially when she specifically asked for a surprise party.
The lunch club bids their farewell, with them needing to be in class first thing in the morning. The camera crew gives you enough space, probably just as tired as you are from the look in their eyes. It’s colder outside as you tuck your bubble jacket around yourself. Gwen gives you a quick hug, while Gayatri holds your hand, trying to ease your worries.
“We’ll keep a look out for her too.”
“Thank you, please drive safely.” You look at them through apologetic eyes. “And I’m sorry for the crappy party. I don’t know what happened to MJ.”
“You kidding me?” Miles scoffs as he keeps the car door open for the girls. “It was great! Even if the celebrant wasn’t there, you did great, Y/N.”
“He’s right, I’m sure she has a valid reason why she couldn’t be here.” Gwen adds, clasping your shoulder one last time before getting inside the car.
“Even though she lives here.” Gayatri says with raised brows and a shared knowing look with the others. “Nevermind that, the party was great.”
“Thank you guys for coming. I’ll bring leftovers tomorrow.” You wave goodbye as the car’s engine rambles.
“If there’s any left, the guys ate it all.” Gwen comments as their laughter filters through the night, driving away.
Someone calls from behind, and you almost startle from the deep tone. “Good party.” Miguel stands with his hands inside his pockets, with a subtle smile illuminated by the moonlight. “I needed to loosen up a bit.”
You remember him swaying to the music like a fern in the breeze and you smile at the recent memory. “I’m glad you came, the others seem to like you, Mr. O’Hara— Miguel.”
He scratches the side of his neck. “You think so?”
“Yeah, they thought you were cool.” Your tone is genuine with no ounce of teasing or malice. It’s the truth when you never saw Miguel alone throughout the party, he was always being chatted up by someone.
“Happy birthday by the way.” Nodding, your boss awkwardly gives you a small wrapped gift, small enough to fit inside the palm of your hand.
“You’re the first one. Thank you.” You grasp the precious gift right above your heart.
“You did save my life, so I feel slightly obligated.” He dryly jokes, making you laugh. Miguel then heads towards his car, passing by yours. “Nice car.”
Your grin widens. “Thanks, I got it for a bargain, barely any miles on it.”
Chuckling, the man gets into his car with a small smile. You never thought that Miguel could even chuckle. Waving goodbye, pocketing the present for later, you head back into the flat once his headlights fade further away.
Hugging yourself amidst the cold, you find it in yourself to smile softly at the documentary crew. Once through the door, you step foot inside an active warzone with Hobie and the band standing by the food table, and with Harry standing by the doorway with his phone tightly clasped in his palm.
“Everything good in here?” You ask, tone steady as your eyes look between them. Glancing to the camera crew, they all look at you with unreadable faces. You can’t even turn to Jared for answers as he just shrugs with a tight lipped smile.
“Everything’s just peachy, gorgeous.” Yuri says with a chuckle against the rim of her glass. “Just peachy.”
You’re in doubt, especially when it comes to Harry and Hobie’s mysterious past. You know those two are beyond becoming friends, and you’re still left wondering why that is. Even when you asked around Hobie’s friend group they all redirected you back to him. One time you tried to ask Harry during a trip to the museum, thinking that your segue with ancient histories to asking about his past with Hobie would work. But you only got a cold response of ‘it doesn’t matter now.’ But as you stand there in the middle, it doesn’t seem that Harry’s over whatever it is.
If only you could ask the camera crew for some footage, maybe the answers lie in their ever watchful camera lenses. But that seems unethical when both men are your friends. Well, one is your friend-ish, you haven’t really solidified what you and Harry have when you two are still taking it slow, real slow. But Hobie though, you really consider him a really good friend, and you start to feel alienated by their whole demeanor against each other.
Why can’t the two people you care about just get along?
Hobie’s eyes turn towards you, embers flickering out the moment he locks eyes with you. His grasp around his drink loosens, shrugging as he gives you a tight smile.
With Harry turning his attention to you, a hand reaching for your hand, the others watch the interaction in the corner of their eyes.
“We’re good, princess.” Smiling, Harry sighs. “My dad just called, said he needed me at home.”
“Shit, is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just some business to help him with. Boring but nothing bad.” He squeezes you fondly, thumb brushing along the back of your hand. The lenses hone in on the intertwined hands, and the other zooms in on Hobie’s flat expression as he stares directly at the camera. “Sorry, I’d like to stay but you know him, always on my ass about these kinds of things.”
“I actually don’t know him, Harry.” You let out an unsure chortle, feeling eyes and cameras right on you. “But I do know that he needs you. It’s okay, go.”
“Not yet anyway.” Leaning close, he whispers to you softly. “I’ll schedule it with him so you can finally meet him.”
“I–I don’t know about that, Harry—”
Moving close, until his lips meet with the corner of your lips, not exactly kissing but close enough to be one. You could see yourself freezing in the camera’s reflection.
You stand there, hand in hand, unmoving as he closes his eyes. As if on cue, the punch bowl suddenly shatters on the table like magic, red iced tea spilling out like a scarlet waterfall as the others yelp in surprise. Glass flies everywhere on the floor, landing by James’ feet as Harry jumps away from you with wide eyes. You guess that there was a crack on it after all.
If the documentary crew was sleepy before, the great shattering of your punch bowl woke them up from their corners.
There’s a loud guffaw, and Yuri looks like she’s about to keel over from the comedic timing.
“That’s a clear sign if I know one.” Ned utters, pointing at the spill, biting the inside of his cheek to prevent a giggle as he kicks a shard of glass away from James’ foot.
“Shit.” Hobie chokes on a laugh, biting his fist as he meets with your shocked eyes. There’s amusement behind his sparkling eyes as the sweet smell of the iced tea permeates through the flat. You almost snorted just from that.
At least the camera crew are getting good footage, not exactly the drama they were looking for but a funny one nonetheless.
“Shit. That was an antique from the thrift store.” Mumbling, you feel a chuckle rumbling up your throat.
“I’ll buy you a new one.” Harry kisses your cheek before letting you go and checking his phone. “I need to go. I’ll see you at work, okay?”
“Yeah,” you had to pull your attention away from Hobie over to Harry with some effort. “As if I have a choice.”
Harry manages a small chuckle. “Funny, tell MJ happy birthday.” With one last pat to your cheek, he leaves the flat just as the bout of laughter echoes around the whole flat.
“Fuckin’ hell, it just blew up!” Hobie is in full on laughter now as he looks at the dangerous puddle on the floor.
“Alright, who cast the spell?” James slurs, a bit wobbly on his feet as Ned grabs him before he could step on a glass shard.
“I’ll get him out of harm’s way.” With Ned leading an inebriated James to the couch, you saunter beside Hobie and a very smiley Yuri.
“And I’ll get the cleaning supplies.” Giggling and biting your lip, you head to the kitchen to grab a mop and some rags to clean it before the juice seeps through the floor.
“Oh, gorgeous, Ned’s right, y’know.” The ravenette says in a sing-song tone before taking a swig of her drink.
“About what?” You’re stopped mid stride into the kitchen.
“The clear sign.”
“Don’t mind her, love, she’s drunk too.” Hobie takes your elbow and guides you further into the kitchen.
“Am not!” She yells back, staggering into the couch as she falls beside a giggly James. While poor Ned is left to babysit them both.
“How much did those two even have? We only had one case of beer.” Grabbing the mop, the punk helps you carry the bucket and supplies outside of the kitchen and back into the living room.
“James snuck in a flask of the hard stuff.” Hobie starts to mop the floor despite the protest blooming right on your expression. “‘m fine, love.”
“I hope he didn’t pour it all in the punch bowl.” Exhaling, you crouch beside the puddle and begin to pick at the shards carefully using a hand towel. “Be careful, with the glass, Hobie.”
“I am, I should be the one tellin’ you that.” Hobie finds himself glancing at you every ten seconds or so to check on you as he lets the mop soak up the spilled drink. “And don’t worry, it’s all over the floor now.” Joking, he sends you a wink as you shake your head with a chortle.
James’ giggling and Yuri’s incoherent mumbling fills the background as Ned keeps having to yank them down on the couch lest they step on glass.
“Well, I’m not the one who has to squeeze the very dangerous mop— ow!” Hissing and clutching your hand, you stare at the deep cut right on the pad of your index finger as you bleed on to your new dress, staining it with red. “Shit, I’m okay.”
“Fuck, lovie.” Hobie’s immediately on you, mop abandoned as the others look at you with worried eyes. The documentary crew are clearly having a ball when Hobie cradles your hand gently in his, brows knitted as his only concern is for you and not at them recording everything. “Where’s the first aid kit?”
“In my bathroom.” You’re gently hoisted up on your feet, already leading you towards the bathroom with his hands glued on yours, trying to stop the bleeding even when your blood coats his palms.
“Ned, keep those two on a tight leash!”
The documentary crew follows despite Ned’s protest that falls on the producer’s deaf ears.
Hobie doesn’t have time to admire your room’s decor as he kicks the bedroom door close behind him just before the crew could step inside. It slams right on the producer’s face, and Hobie hopes that it managed to crack a camera’s lens. You thank him with a small smile, wound starting to throb with ache.
He helps you sit down on your bed, moving to the small adjacent bathroom and towards the medicine cabinet to retrieve the first aid bag with calculated movements as if he’s an experienced combat medic out in the field. Taking his rings off haphazardly onto the counter, he washes his hands thoroughly and quickly before walking towards you.
“Right,” the sound of the zipper echoes in the silence as you tamp down a pained whimper. Your pretty blue dress is now marred with blotches of blood dotted along the skirt. Hobie sits down beside you, the bed dipping down briefly. He opens his palm, heaving and eyes blown out as he sees the pain in your strained expression. “Can I see, lovie?”
With a gulp, winching, you slowly reveal the deep cut under the towel. “I—I should’ve been more careful. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizin’, hm? It’s not your fault.” Hobie presses down on the cut with a clean gauze trying to stop the flow of the blood. “If this doesn’t stop within a minute I might have to bring you to hospital. My medical expertise has limits y’know.”
“You did tell me to be careful.” You can tell that he’s trying to lighten the mood. “That’s why I’m saying sorry.” Mumbling, you try not to look at his hand grasping yours tenderly as you feel the dull pressure right on the cut. “Thank you though, you shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Well I want to. Accidents happen, those shards were small.” He meets with your eyes, giving you a gentle smile. “Yuri always said that it’s not a real party without someone bleedin’ at the end.”
“She really said that?”
“Fuck no,” you chuckle to hide a wince. “I did.” Hobie help distract you from the pain.
“Yeah, it does sound like you.” A comfortable silence fills the room.
His eyes roam around the room, “I didn’t know you liked the Ramones too.” Hobie whispers to you like it’s a secret, and he doesn’t know why being inside your room makes him feel like it’s forbidden as he gestures towards the CD idling on your nightstand.
“Someone got me intrigued by it. Turns out they’re really cool.” Hobie smiles just from that.
The place doesn’t look like much, drab renter’s grey walls that you can’t possibly paint over lest you lose the down payment, but from the looks of things, you really tried to make it into your own space. From the way you decorated the steel bedframe with some colourful scarves tied around it, to the heart shaped string lights weaved through the metal frame. You have knick knacks littered all over, a lava lamp plugged in the corner, a large seashell on the table, a dvd player tucked in between a small painting of a serene hill, and a familiar handkerchief.
The cardigan he gifted to you is draped over an old office chair, and his heart flips from the sight. The simple wardrobe is pristine compared to a makeshift work table that is just a plastic folding table that has numerous fading stickers littered all around it. It all tells a story of how you try to carve a space for yourself, even when the odds are against you, you manage to put an easel down in the middle of the room and fill it with colour.
Looking around your room feels like he’s staring right into your soul. He guesses that’s why it feels like it’s a secret, a forbidden one as he stays inside and sits on your mismatched quilt.
“I know, I need to decorate it more.” Sighing, Hobie could tell that the day’s events are catching up to you.
“Probably, but you tried your best.”
The corner of your lips curl upward. “You know I’ve always dreamed of having my own place just so I could freely decorate it.”
Hobie mirrors your soft smile. “How will you decorate it?”
“First, I’ll paint the walls with something bright and just go ham on everything else.” You’re too preoccupied with looking into his eyes that you haven’t noticed that he’s already cleaning your wound, all the while listening intently to every word you utter. “I’ll fill the fucking place with my crappy paintings and claw machine plushies.”
“They’re not crap, love.”
“Well, they’re cheap so—”
Hobie chuckles as he closes the cut with a bandaid. “‘m not talkin’ ‘bout the stuffed toys. They’re great, fuckin’ amazin’.”
Your heart skips a beat, lips wobbling as you let out a sigh from the words that you’ve been waiting for. “And you’re not just saying that because you’re my friend?” Tone gentle, his hands still haven’t left yours as he grasps your open palm gently.
The word ‘friend’ strikes right at his heart, but he doesn’t mind it as long as you permit him to be by your side. It’s better to just be friends rather than be strangers.
“Nah, love, if I didn’t know you and I saw that,” he points at the unfinished painting of a sunlit flower field with his chin. “I’d still think it’s beautiful.”
You look down to hide your warm smile and equally warm cheeks. “MJ said that it looks like something you see in a motel.”
“That’s a shit take, no offense to MJ but she’s bloody wrong.” Hobie ducks to meet with your eyes, smiling warmly at you as his warmth seeps through the intertwined hands. “Maybe a five star hotel would fit better. Or a museum.”
You can’t help the chuckle that escapes you. “Thank you for the vote of confidence.”
“You’re welcome.” He whispered back, eyes softening with every silent second that passes. “You can lean on me if you want.”
Nodding, you wordlessly close the distance, leaning your head atop his shoulder as you let out a sigh.
Hobie doesn’t say anything, and he lets his heartbeat sync with yours. He keeps his hands to himself, but he indulges with his cheek pressed atop the crown of your head. The fleeting crush he thought he had for you was simply wrong, he’s in love with you. And there’s no doubt about it now as he feels it in his very being.
“You’ve been so good to me, Hobie.” Your eyes flutter close, breath fanning across his throat as goosebumps rise on his skin. “I don’t think I deserve it.” Or you.
“You deserve all the good, love. You really do.”
You resist the urge to hug him, instead you sit there, head right on the crook of his neck as fatigue envelopes you. “Can we stay like this for a bit?”
“Of course.” Closing his eyes, Hobie sits there as still as he could.
A dry cough escapes you, cutting the comfortable silence unintentionally. An apology is on the tip of your tongue, but Hobie in all his compassion, rubs your nape gently.
“D’you want some water? I don’t think I saw you drink the whole party.”
You unfortunately have to lean away from him. “Please, could you?”
“Already on it. I’ll keep the wankers away from your room.”
Hobie stands up and you resist the urge to grab his wrist and pull him back down on the bed. Instead, you let him walk out of the room as your thumb brushes along the bandage wrapped around your finger.
The cameras are immediately at his face the second he exits out of the room. That’s only when he realizes that the both of you still have the mic on your person. Hobie curses under his breath, pushing the camera back, making sure that his fingerprint is all over the lenses. Jared’s the only one from the team that’s amused by it.
The band are still drinking merrily, and the spill is all cleaned up mysteriously. He meets eyes with Ned, and the bassist points at three of them before giving him a thumbs up. Hobie mentally notes down to give the trio some water as thanks. With the fridge in sight, he grabs four water bottles, “a waste,” he thinks, but he figures that you only had them at the ready just for the party.
He nudges the fridge door closed, but it opens right back. Sighing, he places the bottles down on the counter and checks if the hinges snagged at something. Sure enough, a tupperware blocks the way. Before he could fix it, something caught his eye. A pink icing smudged right on the side of a cake cover. Taking a peek wouldn’t hurt, so he lifts the cover gently to see your handiwork, but what he sees has his heart plunging down his stomach.
“Shit.”
The camera perfectly captures his expression. The producer is already thinking of ways to make it into a trending meme.
Your name is written smaller compared to its counterpart just below MJ’s. It’s a glaring sign that no one has greeted you yet, or even knew of it to begin with. A lot of questions flit through his mind, but for now, he races back to you.
“Oi, why are you running?” James asks, words melting together as Hobie once again slams the bedroom door right at the documentary crew.
You startle, peeking from the bathroom with a toothbrush in hand, eyes wide as you stare at a heaving Hobie. “Are you okay?”
“I forgot the water.” He could only manage to say.
“That’s okay.” Giggling, your smile falters when you feel something is amiss. “Hey, what happened?” Toothbrush forgotten, you walk towards him as Hobie sees that you’ve dried his rings and placed them on top of a towel neatly right above your bed. “Hobie?”
He thinks he’s a bad friend.
“It’s your birthday.”
“Yeah,” sighing in relief, you clutch at your chest. “It’s already midnight so technically it is now.” You laugh softly. “I thought something was wrong.”
“Love,” he doesn’t want to sound condescending, or worse, be mad at you or even scold you when he knows that the reason why could have layers to it, that you have a dozen reasons why you didn’t tell anyone. So instead of making you feel worse, he unclasps his metal bracelet that’s shaped like barbed wires straight from his wrist and takes your hand gently to place it on your palm. “Happy birthday.”
You gaze at the gift with starry eyes, reminiscent of the sky reflecting on calm waters. “H—Hobie.”
“I would’ve gotten you somethin’ you’d like more.”
“I blindsided you, didn’t I? I just assumed that you all knew.” Wincing, you look at him apologetically. “I just didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, and I thought that since MJ’s birthday comes first, it’s technically just her party.”
“Love.”
“And if I told everyone that it’s just my birthday maybe they wouldn’t come so I just mentioned MJ’s—”
Hobie calls your name, hand cupping your cheek. “I know, you don’t have to explain.”
“I’m sorry. Not telling anyone and assuming that everyone knew about it is such an asshole move.” You scold yourself, fists curling around each other, leaving crescent shapes on your palms.
“We would’ve all celebrated with you if it was jus’ your party.” With gentle calloused hands, Hobie takes your fists and carefully unfurls them before massaging the indents with his thumb. The act alone has your heart skipping a beat.
“I’m sorry, pitying myself isn’t a good look—”
“Love.” Shaking his head, eyes tender and touch soft, he looks deeply into your eyes. “I see you, y’know. We all see you.”
Your breath shudders at his reassuring words. “Thank you. For the gift, for everything.”
He then takes the bracelet and clasps it around your wrist with such affection that the heavy words lay on the tip of your tongue.
“C’mon and let’s have your cake, yeah?” Hobie tugs at the bracelet, smiling back at you with shining eyes.
“Wait,” but your heart longs for something sweeter. It belongs to someone else, and no one else but Hobie. “I have to tell you something.”
Fuck settling. Fuck being afraid. And fuck standing at the sidelines.
He pauses mid stride, a hand grasping around the doorknob as he looks over his shoulder towards you. He searches your eyes, turning in your direction when he sees trepidation within them. “You alright, love? It’s your birthday, you need to make a wish.”
You already know your wish, and he’s standing right in front of you.
“Hobie, I—”
“Oi, MJ’s here!” James yells from the living room as rambunctious laughter echoes from outside. It seems like she brought a whole army with her.
“I think we should go see her.” Hobie’s hand falls from your wrist with disappointment. “I’ll tell you later, okay?”
“You better, you’re killin’ me ‘ere, love.” Twisting the doorknob, he chuckles just as the door squeaks open, revealing that MJ brought her band over and probably a whole pub with her.
As the bedroom door shuts behind you, any hope you had left for your best friend fades away.
Strangers hoot and holler inside the small flat, barely fitting everyone as more people filter through. Their messy shoes walk all over the floorboards that you just polished to high heavens this morning, the pretty decorations you painstakingly put around are falling over from the amount of bodies piling around. Not even the documentary crew were spared, they huddle together in the corner, camera lights fighting to light the scene with everyone packing inside. Ned’s eyes meet with yours amidst the crowd, you haven’t known him that long but you’ve never seen him so frustrated, not even when he’s wrangling his band like a single mother.
“What the fuck?” Hobie beats you to the right words, an arm over your front in an attempt to shield you from getting bumped.
Anger bubbles up in your chest, heat stinging your cheeks and not like in the same way Hobie brings it out of you. Your brows knit together, hands shaking as you reel your fury in.
“MJ!” Your yell echoes above, but the crowd renders you invisible.
“Watch the camera!” Someone from the crew pushes someone away, earning a few shoves from their corner of the room.
A glass shatters from somewhere, and you haven’t felt this angry since you found out that MJ made out with your crush back in high school. You’ve forgiven her for that, for this though, the verdict’s still out. Your fuming eyes roam around the crowd for the familiar red hair.
Hobie senses the cracking dam inside you. “Oi!” He grabs the nearest person by the arm in front of him, making them face him. “Where the fuck is Mary Jane?”
The stranger glances at his hand and shrugs him off. “Who the fuck is Mary Jane? And do you have some?”
Hobie scoffs and ignores the guy with a roll of his eyes. “Love, I think we should—”
“Here ye, here ye!” MJ’s unmistakable voice bounces off the walls as she appears from the kitchen and stands right on the dining table, trampling the dainty decorations. The crowd goes wild from her appearance. From the way she’s swaying, she’s drunk. “A little birdy told me that it’s someone’s birthday!”
They all cheer, all except for you, Hobie, the band and the documentary crew. At least their shots are more entertaining now, a proper reality show moment for the viewers. If you weren’t getting any complaints from the upstairs neighbors, you’re definitely getting them now.
She pauses for emphasis, holding the crowd’s anticipation. “And it’s my birthday!” she laughs, and your anger turns to hurt. “Listen, listen, I invited you all here for a reason, which you all probably heard because no one in my band could keep their mouths shut!”
“What is she talkin’ ‘bout?” Hobie turns to you, only to see the heart shattering look on your face. His attention is on you and you only. “Love, grab your coat. We can go somewhere else.”
You shake your head, laying your foot down. “No, I’m staying. This is my home too.” Craning your head, you gaze at him through tearful eyes. “I’m staying.”
Hobie nods and takes your hand in his. “If you’re stayin’, ‘m stayin’.”
“Hobie—”
“We fucking got signed by Stark records for an album!” MJ screams, and the whole crowd grows even wilder as they stomp and jump all over like they’re in a club. Her band joins her up on the table, spraying beer right at her and the crowd.
Hobie steps in front of you, getting the brunt of the splash.
“That’s fucking it.” You grunt in between your teeth. Side stepping around Hobie and pushing through the crowd towards the dinner table. “MJ! Get these people out of here!”
She finally notices you, a giddy smile growing wider as she drops down to crouch in front of you. “My best friend in the whole wide world!” Grabbing your cheek, her clammy hands squeeze you as she coos. “You look adorable! Did you hear the news?”
“Everyone on the whole fucking building heard!”
She gasps. “Do you think that they’ll ask for my autograph?”
“You’re drunk and we need to talk!” You try to keep her wits about as you shove her hands away from your face. “Get these people out of here, please!”
“Come on!” Her pout makes you seethe even more when it used to do the opposite. “Don’t be such a party pooper!”
“MJ, mate, they’re trashing the place!” Hobie appears from behind, a palm atop the small of your back that’s more for his balance rather than to keep you reeled in.
The cameras capture the whole moment, albeit shaky, but the producer is salivating just from the potential ratings. Even if it means that it’ll cost you a decade long friendship.
“Hobie! You here for my after party?”
“Stop playin’—”
Hobie’s interrupted when MJ gets yanked to her feet by a band member, presenting her in front of the crowd.
“You’ve got red on you by the way, Y/N!” She gives you those parting words as you’re cast to the side like wet cardboard.
“Tell them about the other thing!” Her drummer yells above the raging audience.
“Oh shit, yeah!” MJ grabs the trampled bouquet that Harry got for you, raising it above her head like a microphone. “They got us a condo downtown! I’m selling the place, baby! We’re moving up!” Despite her happiness, it’s drawing the opposite from you.
“What?” Your heart shatters, “Mary Jane— You— your grandmother left you this apartment!” She jumps from the table from all the cheering as she crowd surfs around the flat. “I live here too!”
“Fuckin’ hell.” Hobie gazes at you with empathy. “Let’s—”
The dam within you breaks as you see nothing but red, plowing through the faceless bodies as you grab your coat and car keys. Hobie and his band try to stop you to no avail. Not even the cameras could stop you in your tracks. And before you know it, you’re getting inside your car and driving to nowhere.
noouu my baby💔 make r and hobie get together please my heart cant take anymore im gonna sob aggressively
"As if you're hers" im screaming giggling blushing and throwing up (literally)
wait whats harry and hobie's backstoryy im curiouss
why is yuri flirting with the cameraman😭💔 i love her sm
i was not ready for this.. i was so NOT prepared for this.. i am crying oh my god katy😿😿 i dont blame mj but aughh this is hurting my heart
i am not enjoying this (im jk i love this in the most heart wrenching way possible)
GELATOO (i feel like you've mentioned lots of italian food, might just be déjà vu)
i love hobie comebacks
hobie has to STOP looking at the camera whenever Harry does sum (im in a train rn and im fighting inner demons)
everyone be knocking and entering the apartment. everyone except mj🤦🏽♀️🤦🏽♀️
miguel coming to the party?? gotta be a miracle
honestly i thought gabriella died so i pinched myself in embarrassment when r talked about his daughter. but its so good to know he has a happy family!! miggy needs some happy in his life
ofc opening bottles.. hobie is for opening *bottles*
mj where the hell u go!?!??!
oww she cut herself and hes so worried i love him sooo much
hobie DESPISES those camera guys😭💔
the way he RAN to r once he found out its her birthday🥹🥹
this time wasnt yuri interrupting r and hobie's moments.. james when i catch you james..
ur writing so fire i feel overwhelmed just thinking about the chaos mj's mates are making
mj.. i knew something was up with you.. i am NOT forgivin her for this what the hell💔
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader
Synopsis: An office holiday party gone awry.
Word count: 8.5k
Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Reader has nicknames, part 3, mockumentary AU, Co-worker AU, Co-worker! Hobie, slight loser! Hobie, CW alcohol, CW food mentions, CW injury.
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Part 3 >>> Part 4
Your whole body is stretched to perfectly line up the holiday garlands on the conference room walls. Back aching and arms starting to cramp while Jessica stands a few ways behind you. She instructs you on where to tack on the scratchy garlands with its sparkly tinsel. The air smells like cinnamon and ginger bread. The food is all laid out on a long foldable table, the sight alone has your stomach rumbling.
“Here?” You struggle a bit, arms aching as you tiptoe on the highest step of the ladder.
“A little bit further up.” You're starting to think that she's just playing with you. She notices your strained huff as you sweat from the harsh camera lights pointed right at you. “Sorry, I would help but the company will not pay me hazard comp if I fall, especially while I'm pregnant.”
“You're pregnant?” You almost fall back, metal ladder wobbling under you briefly before you manage to balance yourself. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you were almost grateful that the documentary crew wasn't there to witness it. Just their cameras that they placed on each corner of the room whilst they shoot b-rolls of the rest of the ‘cast.’ Great.
“Whoa, you okay?” Jess holds up her hands, quickly crossing the distance to steady the ladder.
“Yeah, um congratulations.” you exhale out a nervous bout of air. “That was almost the end of me.” With a nervous laughter, you climb back up the steps to pin the garland. You don't even care if it's lopsided or not, and Jessica doesn't speak up about it either as she grasps her stomach. “Crap, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I bet he was nervous too.” She takes a deep inhale. “I'll be back in a second.”Jessica leaves but comes sauntering back inside. “Can you start decorating the food table, thanks.” Before you could say yes, she's already heading towards the bathroom.
“Okay,” you climb down the ladder with measured steps. You're still a temp so that means if you get injured on the job, you won't get worker's comp. Just three months to go and you can finally breathe easily when you're officially an employee.
Once your feet are back on solid ground, you head towards the sparsely decorated table. There are saran wrapped dishes placed, courtesy of your co-workers. There are also a few dishes with tin foil covering on top of it to keep the heat in, and an empty punch bowl ready to be filled with juice. That makes your mind wander back to Hobie and how he's doing. You two have become casual friends throughout the past few months. He smiles at you whenever he delivers your mail, and would sometimes start a friendly conversation with you. “It's gettin’ colder, innit?” He asks, “What're you havin' for lunch?” And you'd answer back with a smile and a friendly reply. After that he’s gone and out on delivery again. And of course you sometimes have lunch with him together with the rest of the lunch club. But it doesn't feel the same as before the bar incident. You don't know what changed when you tried incredibly hard to not let exactly like this from happening. The awkward glances and the polite smiles have made you feel…bad. Frustrated. Like you've done something terrible to your friend.
MJ has been apologetic to you, and has taken it upon herself to seek out Hobie and his band to personally apologize to them. You start to notice that they've been hanging out more after that. Without you usually, well, more than usual. You don't mind it, or you keep telling yourself that you don't. She comes home telling you stories about the band and Hobie more and more. “He only likes the blue sour patch kids.” And, “yeah, he also told me that there used to be another band member.” You're happy that she found a new friend, and sometimes, just once, you wish that she'd invite you to one of those hangouts. You always liked being alone in your own little bubble of comfort. And MJ knows that, being your friend for a decade or so, she knows how introverted you are. She says that you're her favourite because you know how to listen. But you like to talk too. Not as much as her or as social as her, but it's nice to just be around people, to be invited to sit at the same table as them— to just talk and be listened to. Just like how Hobie is with you. But recently, you two have been missing each other in the office. Usually you would arrive just in time at the exact moment he arrives. But lately, you keep finding yourself alone in the office hallway while you wait for the elevators to open.
The lunch club is at least consistent, and you always eat with them in the break room. You're too afraid to ask where Hobie is or what's happening to him. Maybe he's planning on quitting? Maybe the band is just ramping up their performances from every weekend to every day? Either way, you haven't spoken to him in a while other than seeing him briefly with his mail cart. Why do you feel bad for missing him?
With a sigh, you look outside the window where a fresh drizzle of snow covers the whole empty soccer field right next to the office. The weather has been icy and chilly, more than when you walked to the bus stop. And the feeling’s mutual inside the office. Everyone just wants to go home and stay home. Hobie did invite you to that concert he was talking about a couple of months ago. You're still thinking whether or not you should go. Are you even still invited to that?
As you rearrange the red plates with printed garlands around it, an arm shoots out next to you. For a second you think it would be Hobie coming to fill the punch bowl or to place his contribution, but based on the rich cologne, it's Harry.
You know the scent well ever since you two started carpooling together. It all started on accident really when the ground was too slippery from sleet and he practically begged you to take you home, worried that you'd crack your head on the pavement on your way to the bus stop. After that it snowballed from taking you home occasionally, to giving you a ride home every night. He offered to drive you to the office every morning too if you hadn't told him that he actually lives out of the way from your side of town. He just sighed with a lopsided smile and accepted to only take you home to save you a bus fare. You liked the conversations with him, and you always offer to pay him back but he just shrugs and asks you to buy him a cheap cup of coffee from the convenience store on the way to your place. A cup of coffee turns into talking on the hood of his car while you two chat the night away while munching on chips and gas station hotdogs. It was a surprise kind of friendship that you never thought would blossom into something more than just being co-workers.
“Hey, ice princess.” He smiles, cheeks red from the biting cold outside as he places bottles upon bottles of red punch on the table right next to the bowl. “Your domain’s expanding.”
“Sorry about that.” You joke back, earning a rare chuckle from Harry. “Did you go outside in that weather?”
He blows at his palms, the tip of his nose is rosey. “Yeah, I forgot these in my car.”
“You should warm up, don't want you getting hypothermia now.” You cheekily side eye him.
Shaking his head with a grin tamped down by biting his lip, his cheeks grow redder. “Using my own words against me, wow.”
“I try my best.” You shrug, stacking the plates in a neat pile before you go around him to grab the box of decorations under the table. He helps you lift it up, and you give him your thanks as you place it on the table. It's filled with Santa Clauses, dainty snowmen, and tiny pine trees. “I heard about your sale, congrats.”
“Yeah,” he puffs out his chest with pride as he opens a bottle to fill the bowl. “Thank you, it was a tough sell.”
“I heard, literally, we're desk neighbors. I heard everything.” You say as you place the figurines of Santa next to a savoury smelling dish. “It was like I was watching ‘the wolf of wall street.’”
“Was I that loud?” He mutters while the gurgle of juice fills the bowl. “How about I treat you—” he swallows thickly. “— as a sorry for being too loud, and as a celebration.” Avoiding your eyes, you gaze at him, blinking slowly. “Nothing fancy, just dinner.”
“Okay,” you slowly say. You two technically always have dinner together. But this time it'll be a far cry from eating in his car while mustard dribbles from your fingers and he makes fun of you for putting mustard on your hotdog. It's still just dinner, right? “What do you have in mind?” You can practically hear the docu crew snickering from somewhere once they review the footage. This is probably ‘hot goss’ for them, or that's what Lyla always tells you when they focus on a couple in admin.
“There's this Thai place I've been meaning to go to.” Harry exhales shakily as he continues to pour the second bottle of punch. “Do you like Thai? We can go someplace else if you want.” He almost stammers out the last word.
You smile with endearment, fingers unconsciously playing with the snowman figurine in your hand. “No, I like Thai, that sounds great.” You even surprised yourself at how composed you sounded.
“Yeah?” He boyishly smiles, a brown curl falling over his eye as you nod. “Cool, great. I'll pick you up this weekend.”
“Okay,” you nervously nudge him, and he hides a growing smile. “Be careful, it's almost full.”
“Oh yeah, shoot!” He tips the bottle back before the juice spills over the old carpet. “Thanks, do you need help—?” Before you could say something, a shrill ring of a phone interrupts you both. He takes out his phone and winches. “Sorry, it's my dad…”
“No, it's okay, go ahead, I'm good over here.” You wave him off, and as he leaves, you notice him grimacing at the garland you just put up. “Shit,” you huff, placing the snowman down on the table as you make your way back to the ladder.
It's the last hurrah before the holiday break starts, and you're incredibly glad that you got hired into a company that has a week off during the holidays. So you definitely want to make the place look good or at least presentable to maybe impress your bosses.
The metal creaks under you while you climb up the highest step. You stretch yourself once again as you pluck the garland out to fix it. Something almost falls from within the thick garland, and you catch it in your hand before it falls. Opening your palm, you see a mistletoe all bundled together with a red ribbon. You stare curiously at it since this came from a box labeled ‘office holiday decorations.’ A mistletoe at an office party? Is that even appropriate? You chuckle at the thought.
“How's the weather up there?” A familiar voice asks and you crane your neck so fast that you accidentally fling yourself from the rickety ladder, grip loosening as your fingers brush along the cold metal step. “Oh shit!” You gasp as Hobie rushes in to catch you.
Bracing yourself for impact, you don't feel it as Hobie took the blow of the floor for you.
“Oh fuck, are you okay?! I'm so sorry, Hobie.” You take his cheek as he groans from under you. Your legs are beside him, accidentally straddling him while the mistletoe lands right on his chest— right in between the two of you. “Are you hurting anywhere?” You ask, frazzled and worried.
Hobie lifts up his head with a wobbly grin, eyes gazing at you softly then over to the fallen mistletoe. “Does this still count?”
You follow his line of sight. “Wha— Hobie!” Your cheeks run heavy with warmth when you realize what he's talking about. As you look down, your eyes are fixated on his goofy grin and handsome face. His wicks frame around his face, piercings glinting under the blinking Christmas lights.
“Why do we always find ourselves like this, lovie?” He reminisces about the time you fell on him during Lyla's earthquake scare while you're just trying to even out your breathing lest you fall unconscious on top of him.
“What happened?!” Jessica comes running after the sound of the ladder clatters on the floor. You're immediately rolling off of Him on the floor before she could even wrap her mind around the position you two were in. “Are you two okay?”
Hobie, still on the floor, lifts his hand and gives her a thumbs up. While you could only look at the carpet and how it feels under your clammy hands.
The rest of the office follows, all clambering over each other to witness the commotion. Miguel groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, while Lyla gasps at the scene in front of her. The lunch club walks in, eyes wide before shifting their vision over to a very flustered you and Hobie, who's still a puddle on the floor with the mistletoe on his chest; they all give him a knowing smirk. Meanwhile the camera crew are running to check if the mounted cameras captured the scene.
“If you're hurt, you gotta file a worker's comp, Hobie.” Lyla shakes her head when Hobie dramatically groans as he stands up weakly. “C’mon, man, you know I'll still give it to you without all that.” Miguel glares at her. “Pretend you didn't hear that.” She tells him.
Miguel could only wave it off with a scoff and returns back to work. Hobie gives you a hand, but before you could reach for it, Harry returns and helps you off the floor himself, earning a glare from Hobie.
“Are you okay?” Harry asks you after lifting you off your feet. “Nothing damaged?”
You shake your head, “no, I'm fine, Hobie saved me.”
The two men meet each other's eyes. Their jaws are set, moreso with Hobie while Harry looks more annoyed.
“Are you sure you're okay, Hobie?” You crane your neck and take your attention away from Harry to gaze at Hobie worriedly.
He cups your elbow and gives you a genuine smile. You haven't realized that you missed him this much for your heart to beat as loudly as it is right now. “Yeah, ‘m fine, lovie. Just glad I was there to save you.”
Lyla looks between you and the two men sizing each other up. She glances at Gwen briefly as cameras capture their knowing stares. “Alright, show's over!” She claps her hands together and shoos people away. “Y/N, are you really okay?”
“Yeah, I was just clumsy and good thing Hobie was here to save the day.” You flick your eyes to meet his own gentle look. Harry stays behind you, hands tucked inside his pockets while Pavitr picks up the ladder off the floor. “I'm really okay, I need to finish this.”
Stepping to the side, you head towards the table again and take out the decorations robotically as snow drifts down on the frosty glass. You say thanks to Pav before he gives you a smile and heads back to his desk.
“Good, Brown and Osborne, come with me.” Lyla says sternly, you've never heard that tone coming from her before.
“What?” Hobie asks while he stretches his shoulder.
“Why?” Harry groans.
“Because I said so, now.” She pushes them outside, leaving you alone with Jessica and the cameras.
“Damn.” Jess relays what you had in mind.
“Couldn't have said it better myself.” You look at each other before returning to work like nothing happened. Or you like to pretend to at least.
—
You don't know what happened in Lyla's office with Hobie and Harry, but the two are now avoiding each other like the plague, even more than before. Harry stands near the plastic Christmas tree, nursing a red plastic cup filled with punch. His jaw is clenched, shoulders kept straight and aligned to the wall behind him. He looks like the grinch with all the holiday lights and decorations around him. A classic Christmas tune filters through the air while everyone chats around the room. It's peaceful, even Hobie, whose eyebrows were furrowed together when he first entered, is now happily filling his plate with food.
The camera crew stands on each end of the room, giving everyone space after a very irked Jessica told them to back off or she'll call security on them. You still have no idea why Miguel even lets them in to begin with. Or perhaps it's the big bosses on top who are letting them film for tax break purposes. There's nothing interesting to film in the company anyway— or at least one that doesn't include what happened earlier, or back at the bar, or in front of your apartment. Maybe they should just ask to film you instead of pretending they like documenting the day to day work of an electric toothbrush company. At least then you'd have enough money to have your own place.
Gayatri and Gwen are talking about their classes whilst you listen until Hobie saunters in with two glasses filled with eggnog, one bitten in between his teeth, and the other in his hand. And a filled plate that he has to juggle all together lest there's an accident on the old carpet. His button up is open to a more casual look, necktie nowhere to be seen, while his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing a few tattoos along the way. You spot a spider on the underside of his elbow, and a music note near his wrist. For once you thank the bright fluorescent lights for showing them to you.
You side glance at him, unsure whether the drink was for you or not. He can't speak with the drink in between his lips, so he wordlessly tells you to grab the other cup in his hand simply with his eyes and a muffled call of your name. With a chuckle, you take the drink and he can finally speak as he releases the rim of the cup and places his plate beside a sweet smelling baking sheet of caramel fudge brownies.
“Thanks, Hobie.” You smile sweetly at him, and the two interns share a brief look.
“Where's ours?” Gwen interrupts Hobie before he could even say the two words.
“‘m not an octopus, Gwendy.” Hobie scrunches his nose at Gwen, sipping teasingly at his drink, leaving a milk mustache on his upper lip.
“Fine, chivalry truly is dead.” Gayatri sighs and takes Gwen's hand as they glare at him before heading towards the food table where Miles and Pavitr are talking beside a plate of mashed potatoes.
“Can you believe them?” Hobie nudges you and takes the space where the two women were.
“Maybe they really like eggnog.” You joke with a smile, sipping casually at the warm drink. It's creamy with a hint of warmth lining your tongue. “Oh, you got a little something…” pointing at your upper lip, he wipes at his mouth, miraculously missing the milk mustache. “No, right…” you take a handkerchief from your pocket and wipe it for him. “...here. There, you don't look like a baby anymore.”
For a moment, Hobie looks like a deer in the headlights. Blinking, he composed himself, smiling through the fog of shyness. “Got it all, love?”
“Yeah,” you say, leaning against the table as you two gaze at each other. You suddenly feel a wave of déjà vu. “T–The eggnog is really good, Hobie. Did you make it yourself?” In your flustered stupor, you try to make casual conversation as he stares at the handkerchief in your hand.
“It's Ned's recipe, but yeah I made it all by my lonesome. You kept my handkerchief?” He almost said breathlessly.
“Y–Yeah, you said I can keep it— but if you want it back.” You try to hand it to him but he chuckles and pushes the cloth back towards you.
“Nah, ‘m jus’ surprised you kept it.” Hobie scratches the back of his head,
You flick your eyes to the checkered handkerchief. “Thank you again.”
“Stop sayin' thanks, love, your smile’s enough for me.”
“Cheesy.” You say, muffled against the rim of your cup.
“What's that?” He plays along as his eyes glimmer.
“Nothing, I just said you're a cheese ball, Hobie Brown.” You tease with a lilt in your tone.
“Everyone fancies a cheeseball, don't you think?”
The two of you chuckle whilst the party continues to go on without the two of you. The snow stopped falling outside, covering the parking lot and street with a soft sheet of snow as the world seemed to come to a standstill. The gentle piano rendition of ‘jingle bells’ plays in the background, while the laughter of your co-workers instead of clacking keyboard filters through your ears. Hobie gazes at you with the same fondness back at the bar before you had to walk out in the cold. And you mirror his expression, lips curled into a subtle smile, body turned towards him as you two cradle matching cups of eggnog.
With liquid courage courtesy of the drink, you finally ask him. “How have you been, Hobie?”
“Fuckin' busy.” He sighs, hand placed inside his trousers pocket. “The show on the twenty fourth got us all bloody busy. The interns can't join so Yuri and the others have to work twice as hard without ‘em. I don't have a stand in though. That's why I've been out of it these past few weeks.” With the tip of his shoe, he nudges your heels. “I've been takin’ my lunch with the band just to get an extra hour of practice in. Why? Did you miss me?”
“No one can replace Hobie Brown.” You nudge him back, earning a wobbly smile from him. “And no, I had the lunch club to keep me company.”
“Well, shit, and ‘ere I thought you missed my presence.”
“I’m pretty sure that's called a delusion.”
Hobie laughs, a deep rumble that has the whole room staring briefly at him. And unfortunately, the cameras too. But for the first time, you don't mind all the eyes and lenses on you when his laughter fills your chest with warmth. And you're pretty sure it's not from the spiced eggnog.
He opens his mouth to say something, hand reaching for your elbow but before he could say it, Miguel calls for everyone's attention.
“Time for secret Santa, everyone gather around in a circle—”
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Suddenly, out comes Lyla, dressed in a fluffy Mrs. Claus suit. It looks expensive to boot, and not like anything you see online. Does she use it every year? “I come bearing gifts!” She lifts up the giant velvet sack in her hands, barely lifted up from the weight of it. You remember that you had to put your present in the day before per Lyla's request. Your eyes nervously glance at the recipient of said gift.
Suddenly, Peter walks behind her, dressed as Santa, but in a blue suit rather than the iconic red. “We come bearing gifts!” He helps lift the sack over Lyla's head, earning an annoyed look from Lyla. It seems like they didn't talk about this beforehand.
Hobie shakes his head, smiling and clearly amused. “Fuckin' hell. C’mon, let's get our presents before Miguel gets to his fifth glass of eggnog.” Grabbing his plate, he slowly eats his way towards the slice of red velvet cake in the center that's crowded around by a mishmash of pastries and cold cuts. Your holiday cookies are piled up on his plate while he munches on poor frosty the snowman’s head. “It’s good.” He says, muffled by the cookie in his mouth. You chortle at him, lip bitten from tamping down a squeak of delight at his reaction.
You follow beside him, making a circle around Lyla and Peter. “Why, is Miguel a lightweight?”
“He gets to his sixth and he gets…chatty.” He offers you something on his plate, and since you already ate, you only took a mini muffin from it.
You can't imagine Miguel being chatty out of everyone whilst you munch on the tiny muffin. “Does he spill company secrets?”
“I wish, he talks ‘bout his personal life.”
“Ow, we better finish this quick then.”
You don't notice the way the interns are looking at the two of you from across the circle. Harry sidles up next to you on your left, biting into a kebab.
“Hey, Harry.” You smile at him.
“Hi, princess. Where'd you get the muffin?”
“From over…” Craning your neck to look for it on the table, you can't find the tiny muffins. “...I don't know actually.” You laugh unsurely. “I got it from Hobie.”
Hobie, without missing a second, says. “We're all out of it, bruv, that's the last one.”
Yep, definitely déjà vu.
Harry scoffs. “Right.”
You glance at the two of them as they avoid each other's line of sight. You really do feel like a referee whenever you're in between them.
“Alright, rules.” Peter says, and a groan echoes around the room. “Come on, we've got new people here so I gotta say it again. First of all, I hope none of you said who's your secret Santa before because you can only say that once after they open their present, capiche?” Another round of groans can be heard. “It's just not fun when everyone knows!” Everyone gives him an unenthusiastic nod. “Second, no second rule, just have fun!”
“That is the most dad thing I've ever heard.” Gwen says, and Peter dramatically frowns.
“It’s because I am a dad, Gwen!”
“Alright, enough, let's start because the lasagna isn't agreeing with me right now.” Miguel gruffly says, fifth drink in hand.
“Great,” Hobie says sarcastically. “‘Too much information' Miguel is ‘ere.”
Miguel scrunches his face and plops himself beside the dessert table. All without giving Hobie lip.
“Wow, he just accepted that.” You say, surprised.
“He gives up after his fourth drink.” Hobie bumps his elbow with yours as you two laugh. Unbeknownst to you, the camera is zooming in on Harry's disgruntled expression.
One by one, names are called to grab their presents. Some are happy about their gifts, like Miles, who got an old CB radio from Peter. But most are trying their best not to disappoint the person who got their name. Just like Gwen and her stuffed bunny rabbit gifted by someone in I.T. and like Miguel, who got a pair of airpods which Hobie reacted with a coughed out ‘arse kisser.’ No one dared to say who it's from after that. You have a feeling it's from Harry since he has a similar pair. It'll be revealed after everyone gets their presents anyway.
“Alright, this one is for… Hobie!” Peter exclaims as he hands the neatly wrapped present to him.
You bite your lip, fingers playing with the hem of your sweater as he opens the gift carefully. You only hope that he likes it since it took you so long to finish it.
Hobie whistles out as he admires the vintage leather jacket. “Damn.”
His finger skims over the metal buttons that you painstakingly polished and then over to the stitched holes that you carefully stitched to make different patterns of. You're not a seamstress of sorts, and you had to watch a sewing tutorial on how to make a lightning bolt simply with a needle and thread. The aches and blisters on your fingers are evidence of that. Turning the denim around, his eyes widen at his band logo that's stitched at the back. He recognizes it from a band t-shirt they used to give out. The fabric was cut from the front of it and then stitched on the back with neat running stitches. At the hem, his initials are painted in big bold letters.
“I said not to go over the limit.” Jess has had enough of the expensive gifts.
“I–I didn't.” You blurt out and everyone turns to you. Hobie included as his smile grows. “I thrifted the jacket and I made all the restoration myself. I didn't go over, it's even below the budget.”
“Okay, sorry about that.” Jess sighs, still clutching the hundred dollar gift card to some baby clothes shop. “Still,” she waves it around to make a point. “I see a pattern.”
“It's okay.” You resist the urge to meet with Hobie's eyes, or anyone's on that matter.
“You got this for me, lovie?” His voice is an octave higher, like he can't believe that you'd work so hard on a present just for him. Especially something that's so meaningful to him.
“Yep,” you pop the letter ‘p’ to hide your bashfulness. You finally gather the courage to look at him, finding that his warm honeyed eyes are looking at you softly that you forgot what just happened. “Do you like it?”
Harry side eyes the two of you, skimming over the band logo with a heavy look.
“I fuckin' love it.” Hobie says with a breathless sigh. “Where'd you even get the shirt? I lost mine years ago.”
“I asked MJ if she knew where to get it, she tried but couldn't find it so she told me to try talking to your band mates.” You nervously pick at your nail, rambling on. “Turns out Ned still had his.”
“Let me guess, he got you to pay a pretty penny for it, hm?”
You shake your head with a chuckle. “No, he gave it to me for free, as an apology for the bar. He's actually quite nice.”
“Good thing you asked him and not James. You picked the nicest one of us.”
“Please, you're plenty nice too.”
“‘m nice to those who deserve it, love.” He puts on the denim jacket, all the while watching you in the corner of his eyes. Thankfully, it fits him like a glove, except for the sleeve that's a few inches shorter, but he doesn't seem to mind while he has the biggest grin on his pierced lips. “How do I look?”
“You wear it well.” Is the only sentence you could manage that doesn't have the word ‘handsome’ or ‘gorgeous’ in it.
“Thank you, love.” He rubs the rough denim, smiling like a kid who just got what he wanted for Christmas. “It's perfect. I also have—” Your name gets called suddenly, interrupting his words.
“There you go, kiddo.” Peter hands you an expensive looking paper bag that's all tied with a sparkly navy blue ribbon.
“Oh, thanks.” You mumble out.
You were planning on opening it later after the party but since everyone opened theirs already, you suppose you had to. It feels like a birthday party of sorts where everyone’s singing you a happy birthday while you could only stare awkwardly at the candles on the cake. The cameras come around you, not trying to miss anything. Unwrapping the ribbon, and feeling like a goldfish inside a tank, you put your whole arm in the bag, feeling something smooth inside as you pull it out. The paper bag drops by your feet as you gasp at the gorgeous antique looking box in your hands. It's about the size of a textbook, it has some weight too.
“What's in the box!” Peter acts and you immediately get the reference to it. While most people rolled their eyes at it, you and Miles chuckled at the joke.
You run your thumb across the peony flower engraving around the metal clasp. It's well made, something you see at some expensive antique shop that looks like all the items are either cursed or haunted. Now you're afraid that when you open it famine and disease will escape out of it. But as you unclasp it, rows of vibrant paint tubes greets you. There's a handful of paint brushes along the top of it, by the looks of it, it's just as well made as the box. With a nervous chuckle, mouth agape, it seems that not just the bosses got the ‘arse kisser’ gifts.
Jess huffs but shrugs, accepting that people have gone over the price limit. At the end of the day, it's just a nice gesture.
“Who?” You instinctively look at Hobie, cheeks warm at the prospect of him being your secret Santa. But he just shakes his head, mouthing ‘not me.’ Then you look over to the group of interns and they all mirror Hobie's gesture.
A tap on your shoulder has you looking over to your left. Harry smiles softly at you, green eyes shining.
“Don't worry, I got it on sale.” He whispers to you, index poking the side of the box. “I saw your paint set back at your place, most of the tubes were almost finished so I thought I'd get you some new ones. This is what they call serendipity, I think. ”
“Harry,” you sigh out while everyone has moved onto you and your expensive looking gift over to Gayatri and her secret Santa present. “This is too much. I think there's every colour in here.”
“That just means you don't have to buy new ones for a while then.”
“I would've settled for just one tube.” You lean closer so as to not disturb the rest of the party with your conversation.
“Can't, you deserve all the colors of the rainbow.” Harry comes closer until his shoe kisses the side of your heels.
“This is definitely more than the rainbow, Harry.”
“You're welcome, princess.” He nudges you, hand lingering on your bicep.
Hobie swallows thickly next to you. The camera crew are eating it all up it seems.
Peter gasps as he lifts up his present, interrupting you and Harry. “It's a dragon onesie!” A crocheted one in fact as you chuckle at his reaction.
“It's for Mayday so don't try to wear it, mate—” A strained cough roars above the merriment.
Everyone looks over to the source where Miguel is hacking out a rough cough, a swollen hand clasped around his neck as he wheezes out. A caramel brownie falls from his other hand, rolling across the floor. Your eyes widen with panic as he keels over on the carpeted floors, bumping on the dessert table as food tumbles out and decorations falling while he's still coughing.
“Shit! He's choking!” Jessica runs over to him, palm slapping Miguel's back.
Everyone crowds around Miguel in a panic. His lips are swollen, eyes red as he continues to choke.
“I'm calling an ambulance.” Gayatri has the right idea and dials the number.
“Move over!” Harry speed walks behind Miguel, arms wrapping around his middle and trying to do the Heimlich maneuver on him.
Gasps echo around, worry and panic setting in.
“He needs CPR!” Peter argues with Harry and Jessica while Gayatri’s frantic call to emergency services roams above the voices.
Hobie crouches down, grabbing the fallen brownie on the ground and smells it. The harsh lights of the crew and their added space makes the situation worse and claustrophobic. Not an ideal environment for someone who can't breathe.
“What—?” You ask and Hobie has a lightbulb moment.
“Peanuts! There's bloody peanuts in this!”
You immediately push people away and bolt over to your desk, rummaging through your bag for the orange cap and leaving the paint box on your table.
“Does anyone have an epipen?!” Jessica yells in a panic, but you're already pushing Peter away from trying to do CPR on Miguel as the needle meets Miguel's thigh in a quick and practiced motion from you.
Within a second, Miguel inhales deeply, colour returning to his lips. His fingers and lips are still swollen, but at least he's breathing much better now.
“Holy shit!” Harry exclaims, eyes darting over to Miguel and over to you with something flitting across his expression.
“Holy shit.” Hobie says breathlessly, mirroring the same expression on Harry's face. You can't quite get a good read on them as you heave, hand still clasp around the epipen. Are they impressed or something?
“Damn, newbie.” Lyla pats your shoulder, then a round of applause follows around. You almost cower from embarrassment.
You look at Hobie, who's still fixated on you. “I always have one on me since MJ’s also allergic to peanuts.” You explain since he might be wondering why you carry it around. He smiles at you, eyes twinkling. “Keep that in mind, Hobie.” You say since they spend a lot of time together.
“Sure, l–love, whatever you say.” He stammers out, crouched across from you. Even when everyone pats you for a job well done, he can't keep his eyes off you.
“Nice save, princess.” Harry says, nodding and grinning at you.
“F–Fuck.” Miguel groans out a laboured exhale, head slowly lifting up. “Thank you.” You curtly nod at him, pride filling your chest.
“Alright, everyone, give Miguel some space!” Jessica shoos people put. “He needs some air.” The documentary crew gladly filters out and weirdly happy that they got some interesting footage. A bit fucked up, you thought.
“He still needs to go to the hospital.” You say as Hobie helps you up on your feet. Miguel is still on the floor while Jessica and Lyla tend to him.
“Ambulance is on the way.” Gayatri nudges you as the group gazes down at Miguel. “What else do you have on you, girl scout?”
“Narcan and antihistamines.”
“Shit,” the lunch club gasps in tandem.
“Remind me to always bring you when I go out to dinner at the seafood place.” Gwen shoves you lightly with a smile as you mirror her expression.
“Does this mean the party's over?” Peter asks and everyone just stares at him.
—
“Love, wait!” Hobie runs after you, sliding on the ice as he tries to keep himself on his feet. You stop and open your arms to catch him mid slide. He collides against you in a flurry of snow and giggles. “Sorry!” He laughs in your arms and he feels warm despite the weather.
“What's got you running on ice?” You laugh, a puff of smoke filtering from your cold lips. Your hands are still on him, and his touch lingers for a second before he pulls his backpack out and grabs a wrapped present inside. “Secret Santa's over.” It's merely a whisper as you stare at the brightly wrapped gift with ballpoint doodles all over it.
“I know, I jus’ wanted to give you somethin'.” He inhales, eyes bright and soft under the glare of the snow. The denim jacket is tucked under his thick coat, peeking under it and you smile at the thought of him loving it so much that he's still wearing it.
“You don't have to, Hobie. I told you that I already forgave you.”
His palm rests above your own. “It's not an apology present. You're my mate, and I give presents to my mates.”
There's warmth behind your eyes as you lean over and hug him without second thought. Hobie embraces you back, chin tucked on your shoulder while he smells like eggnog and cookies.
“You haven't opened it yet.” He chuckles, breath fanning the shell of your ear.
“I know.” Moving away, his hands hover around your sides for a second or two before fully leaning away. “I just wanted to say thank you. You made working here bearable.”
Hobie inhales shakily as he stares into your eyes. “You make it sound like you're leaving.”
“Not leaving just yet, Hobie. I've got rent and debts to pay.” You hug the soft present against your chest, his smile doesn't leave his lips while he gazes softly at you. “Can I open it here or…?”
“You can open it.” He says immediately, chuckling nervously while he scratches the back of his neck. “It's something for the concert on the twenty fourth so you don't have to borrow anymore.” Sniffing, he gestures at the present with his head. “You're still goin’ right?”
“Of course. You and MJ have been working hard on it. I won't miss it, I promise.” Your words have him grinning even more.
Carefully unwrapping the present and unfurling the blue crêpe paper, a black crocheted cardigan greets you. The soft thread has sparkles weaved around it, and when the light hits it, the whole thing almost glows. You choke on a gasp.
“Shit, did you make this?” You ask, impressed and happy.
“I did, I hope it fits because I jus’ fuckin' eyeballed it.” Hobie says with a bit of nervousness. “Look at that, you gave me a jumper and I gave you one. It's serendipitous.” He chuckles out the last word. “It's not a leather one, but I think this suits you.”
You can't help but reach for him and hug him again. “You’re right, it looks comfy. Thank you, Hobie, I love it.”
He pats your back, and you can feel his face tug into a smile. “‘course, love.”
A car horn honks behind you, and Harry rolls down his window, waving you over impatiently. You and Hobie unlatch yourselves away, and with him holding you at arm's length.
“In a bit!” You gesture back as you turn towards Hobie one more time. Not knowing what to say next, you could only bite your lip bashfully with a smile. “Thank you again, Hobie. I'll see you at the concert.”
“Bye, lovie.” You begin to walk away but he calls you back. “Oi,” he gets your attention and Harry's. “Drive carefully, yeah?” You realize that he's talking to Harry and not to you.
“I always drive carefully, Hobs.” Harry scoffs, getting out of his car as snow crunches underfoot. He goes around the hood to open the passenger side and waits for you.
Hobs?
“‘course you do, prick.” Hobie says under his breath while you enter the passenger side and give him one last wave.
Harry glares at him while he returns to the driver's seat. Rolling up his window, he turns to you, eyes softening as you meet his eyes. “Ready to go?” He glances briefly at the cardigan in your hands.
“Yeah.” Your smile doesn't fade.
—
The concert wasn't what you thought it would be. Instead of a dark bar with crusty seats and sticky floors, you stand in a decent domed concert hall that has food vendors to the side together with the various band merchandise. Both teenagers and adults attend the event, smiling and listening to a pop group playing on stage. There's still bright lights flickering in and out, spotlights shining around while the sound system booms and bounces all over the walls. Above the stage, a banner reads 'F.E.A.S.T. annual children's hospital benefit.’ Now you feel silly when you first thought that you'll once again tread around a bar.
“Are you sure you want to come here instead of the movies, princess?” Harry loops his arm around your hips, palm resting atop your side comfortably. “They have 4D. Y’know the ones that spray water on your face.”
“It's a charity, Harry.” You hold the back of his hand, craning your neck to look at him.
The first ‘dinner’ wasn't just a regular celebration dinner at all. Turns out it was an actual date, and you only realized it when he picked you up from your place and handed you a sweet smelling bouquet of flowers. He did the whole thing too, opened the car door for you, pulled the chair for you. Shared a slice of cake for dessert with you, and even secretly paid for the whole meal when he said that he was only going to the bathroom. He was sweet the entire time, a lot more talkative outside of work and the regular car rides, but a good date nonetheless. Immediately after walking you to your front door, he asks for another date with a sheepish smile. You said yes. You did promise MJ that you'll try. So try, you did. Then after a coffee date, you two went to a drive in theatre. The next thing you know, you two are already on your fifth date. Or is it your fifth? You lost count after the butterfly sanctuary date.
You haven't kissed him, apart from a chaste peck on the cheek, there's no lip locking. And he hasn't asked for it nor made a move to kiss you either. It's alright though, you're still not ready to seal the deal just yet. Maybe it has something to do with today, or maybe with a certain someone. You like Harry enough, but there's a nagging feeling on the back of your head for some reason.
“I know, it's just— you know what, this is nice.” Harry relents and pecks your temple. That'll need some getting used to. “I saw a Korean corn dog stand over there, do you want one?”
You're too distracted from looking for the band and Hobie's familiar gait. “Yeah, sure, Harry.” Turning back to him, you squeeze his hand. “I'll wait for you at the front.”
“You sure?” With a nod from you, he unwraps his arm from your side. “I guess I'll call you if we get separated.”
“Yeah, I'll be fine. This isn't like the bar.”
Chuckling, he pats the small of your back before walking towards the food stalls. And you see the familiar camera crew looking around, befuddled and looking lost. You immediately, yet subtly walk away, hoping that the crowd will help camouflage you.
As you make your way towards the front, you see MJ's familiar head of red hair. “MJ!”
She turns around, squealing and bounding towards you. “You made it!” Hugging you, she squeezes the life out of you. “Is that new?” Her eyes flick over to the black sparkly cardigan you have on.
“Yeah, it was a gift.” You hold her at arm's length as she bounces on the balls of her feet excitedly. The rest of her band stands behind her, all visibly excited as they give you a friendly yet quick greeting. “Remember to breathe, we don't want a repeat of the talent show.”
MJ rolls her head back and groans audibly. “Don't remind me! I still have nightmares from it! Good fucking thing we're not on for a little while.”
“Oh, I thought you guys were playing first before Hobie's band?”
“Change of plans apparently. They get to go on first.” She says as the spotlights go wild after the band playing on stage bows to the clapping crowd.
“Where are they anyway—?”
“So where's the new guy, huh? I need to see if he's hot so he can get my approval.” She tugs you to her side, bouncing up and down.
“He's not my— he's buying me a corndog.”
“A man after your own heart, I love that.” She pokes your chest.
You rub the point where she poked you. “Yeah, I guess so. Where's Hobie, I need to wish him luck—?”
A loud guitar riff bounces around the walls, signaling the band's arrival. The lights turn blood red, and the crowd goes wild at the sight.
Hobie looks stunning under the light, wicks pulled together in a ponytail, top almost sheer as it shimmers in the spotlight. His pants are tight and flared at the bottom, all tied together by silver accents, a belt that has a spider on the buckle, and numerous rings and necklaces on him. But most of all, the jean jacket you gifted him fits perfectly on him. He put his own spin on it, adding his own flair with a few buttons and patches while the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. It all made you smile.
MJ screams each band member's name, voice cracking when she yells Yuri's name. Her band follows behind, fully screaming out together with the audience. MJ leads you towards the front to see them better, clutching your arm tightly and grinning brightly.
“Hobie!” She screams at the top of her lungs, earning a guffaw from you. “She made it!” Pointing at your head, your heart almost lurches in your chest when his eyes meet yours.
Immediately, the nonchalant look turns soft for you. But as quick as it came, he cranks his charm to a hundred and winks at you. A few people shriek, thinking that the wink was intended for them. You aren't sure if it was even for you.
The lights make his eyes glow bright red, skin looking like it's on fire as he shreds his guitar. Yuri's almost haunting singing voice adds to your swirling thoughts.
“Let's go, Hobie!” You add to the screaming fans, cupping your mouth with your hands for added volume. It has Hobie almost cracking a smile as you see his lips tug up, and he's clearly fighting with it as he swallows.
MJ guffaws, following your cheer with another.
“Hey,” Harry appears beside you, eyes flicking over to the band briefly before turning to you. “They ran out of corndogs!” He yells above the music.
You miss how Hobie sneered at the sight.
“That's okay!” You grin, yelling back. “Just enjoy the music, Harry!”
“Yeah,” he nods, and you feel his hand wrap around your own. It's not weird in the slightest since you two held hands before. “You must be MJ!” Harry leans in front of you, making you stand on your tiptoes to see Ned playing on the drums.
“What?! Oh you're the guy!” MJ does the same, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you! You better take care of my girl!” You almost shush them both.
“I will, don't worry!” Harry nods and reciprocates MJ's fist bump.
MJ stands back up, “I approve.” She whispers into your ear, giving you a thumbs up.
You chuckle, putting your arm over her back to half hug her. You wonder if Hobie can see the three of you clearly while he's on stage. Or if he knows that he's got people rooting for him. MJ hoots and hollers, and you feel a hand cupping your cheek, moving your head towards Harry's face.
“Yeah, you okay?” You ask him, smiling until you feel his lips on your own. And the sound of a wrong guitar chord squeaks out.
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader
Synopsis: An office holiday party gone awry.
Word count: 8.5k
Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Reader has nicknames, part 3, mockumentary AU, Co-worker AU, Co-worker! Hobie, slight loser! Hobie, CW alcohol, CW food mentions, CW injury.
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Part 3 >>> Part 4
Your whole body is stretched to perfectly line up the holiday garlands on the conference room walls. Back aching and arms starting to cramp while Jessica stands a few ways behind you. She instructs you on where to tack on the scratchy garlands with its sparkly tinsel. The air smells like cinnamon and ginger bread. The food is all laid out on a long foldable table, the sight alone has your stomach rumbling.
“Here?” You struggle a bit, arms aching as you tiptoe on the highest step of the ladder.
“A little bit further up.” You're starting to think that she's just playing with you. She notices your strained huff as you sweat from the harsh camera lights pointed right at you. “Sorry, I would help but the company will not pay me hazard comp if I fall, especially while I'm pregnant.”
“You're pregnant?” You almost fall back, metal ladder wobbling under you briefly before you manage to balance yourself. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you were almost grateful that the documentary crew wasn't there to witness it. Just their cameras that they placed on each corner of the room whilst they shoot b-rolls of the rest of the ‘cast.’ Great.
“Whoa, you okay?” Jess holds up her hands, quickly crossing the distance to steady the ladder.
“Yeah, um congratulations.” you exhale out a nervous bout of air. “That was almost the end of me.” With a nervous laughter, you climb back up the steps to pin the garland. You don't even care if it's lopsided or not, and Jessica doesn't speak up about it either as she grasps her stomach. “Crap, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I bet he was nervous too.” She takes a deep inhale. “I'll be back in a second.”Jessica leaves but comes sauntering back inside. “Can you start decorating the food table, thanks.” Before you could say yes, she's already heading towards the bathroom.
“Okay,” you climb down the ladder with measured steps. You're still a temp so that means if you get injured on the job, you won't get worker's comp. Just three months to go and you can finally breathe easily when you're officially an employee.
Once your feet are back on solid ground, you head towards the sparsely decorated table. There are saran wrapped dishes placed, courtesy of your co-workers. There are also a few dishes with tin foil covering on top of it to keep the heat in, and an empty punch bowl ready to be filled with juice. That makes your mind wander back to Hobie and how he's doing. You two have become casual friends throughout the past few months. He smiles at you whenever he delivers your mail, and would sometimes start a friendly conversation with you. “It's gettin’ colder, innit?” He asks, “What're you havin' for lunch?” And you'd answer back with a smile and a friendly reply. After that he’s gone and out on delivery again. And of course you sometimes have lunch with him together with the rest of the lunch club. But it doesn't feel the same as before the bar incident. You don't know what changed when you tried incredibly hard to not let exactly like this from happening. The awkward glances and the polite smiles have made you feel…bad. Frustrated. Like you've done something terrible to your friend.
MJ has been apologetic to you, and has taken it upon herself to seek out Hobie and his band to personally apologize to them. You start to notice that they've been hanging out more after that. Without you usually, well, more than usual. You don't mind it, or you keep telling yourself that you don't. She comes home telling you stories about the band and Hobie more and more. “He only likes the blue sour patch kids.” And, “yeah, he also told me that there used to be another band member.” You're happy that she found a new friend, and sometimes, just once, you wish that she'd invite you to one of those hangouts. You always liked being alone in your own little bubble of comfort. And MJ knows that, being your friend for a decade or so, she knows how introverted you are. She says that you're her favourite because you know how to listen. But you like to talk too. Not as much as her or as social as her, but it's nice to just be around people, to be invited to sit at the same table as them— to just talk and be listened to. Just like how Hobie is with you. But recently, you two have been missing each other in the office. Usually you would arrive just in time at the exact moment he arrives. But lately, you keep finding yourself alone in the office hallway while you wait for the elevators to open.
The lunch club is at least consistent, and you always eat with them in the break room. You're too afraid to ask where Hobie is or what's happening to him. Maybe he's planning on quitting? Maybe the band is just ramping up their performances from every weekend to every day? Either way, you haven't spoken to him in a while other than seeing him briefly with his mail cart. Why do you feel bad for missing him?
With a sigh, you look outside the window where a fresh drizzle of snow covers the whole empty soccer field right next to the office. The weather has been icy and chilly, more than when you walked to the bus stop. And the feeling’s mutual inside the office. Everyone just wants to go home and stay home. Hobie did invite you to that concert he was talking about a couple of months ago. You're still thinking whether or not you should go. Are you even still invited to that?
As you rearrange the red plates with printed garlands around it, an arm shoots out next to you. For a second you think it would be Hobie coming to fill the punch bowl or to place his contribution, but based on the rich cologne, it's Harry.
You know the scent well ever since you two started carpooling together. It all started on accident really when the ground was too slippery from sleet and he practically begged you to take you home, worried that you'd crack your head on the pavement on your way to the bus stop. After that it snowballed from taking you home occasionally, to giving you a ride home every night. He offered to drive you to the office every morning too if you hadn't told him that he actually lives out of the way from your side of town. He just sighed with a lopsided smile and accepted to only take you home to save you a bus fare. You liked the conversations with him, and you always offer to pay him back but he just shrugs and asks you to buy him a cheap cup of coffee from the convenience store on the way to your place. A cup of coffee turns into talking on the hood of his car while you two chat the night away while munching on chips and gas station hotdogs. It was a surprise kind of friendship that you never thought would blossom into something more than just being co-workers.
“Hey, ice princess.” He smiles, cheeks red from the biting cold outside as he places bottles upon bottles of red punch on the table right next to the bowl. “Your domain’s expanding.”
“Sorry about that.” You joke back, earning a rare chuckle from Harry. “Did you go outside in that weather?”
He blows at his palms, the tip of his nose is rosey. “Yeah, I forgot these in my car.”
“You should warm up, don't want you getting hypothermia now.” You cheekily side eye him.
Shaking his head with a grin tamped down by biting his lip, his cheeks grow redder. “Using my own words against me, wow.”
“I try my best.” You shrug, stacking the plates in a neat pile before you go around him to grab the box of decorations under the table. He helps you lift it up, and you give him your thanks as you place it on the table. It's filled with Santa Clauses, dainty snowmen, and tiny pine trees. “I heard about your sale, congrats.”
“Yeah,” he puffs out his chest with pride as he opens a bottle to fill the bowl. “Thank you, it was a tough sell.”
“I heard, literally, we're desk neighbors. I heard everything.” You say as you place the figurines of Santa next to a savoury smelling dish. “It was like I was watching ‘the wolf of wall street.’”
“Was I that loud?” He mutters while the gurgle of juice fills the bowl. “How about I treat you—” he swallows thickly. “— as a sorry for being too loud, and as a celebration.” Avoiding your eyes, you gaze at him, blinking slowly. “Nothing fancy, just dinner.”
“Okay,” you slowly say. You two technically always have dinner together. But this time it'll be a far cry from eating in his car while mustard dribbles from your fingers and he makes fun of you for putting mustard on your hotdog. It's still just dinner, right? “What do you have in mind?” You can practically hear the docu crew snickering from somewhere once they review the footage. This is probably ‘hot goss’ for them, or that's what Lyla always tells you when they focus on a couple in admin.
“There's this Thai place I've been meaning to go to.” Harry exhales shakily as he continues to pour the second bottle of punch. “Do you like Thai? We can go someplace else if you want.” He almost stammers out the last word.
You smile with endearment, fingers unconsciously playing with the snowman figurine in your hand. “No, I like Thai, that sounds great.” You even surprised yourself at how composed you sounded.
“Yeah?” He boyishly smiles, a brown curl falling over his eye as you nod. “Cool, great. I'll pick you up this weekend.”
“Okay,” you nervously nudge him, and he hides a growing smile. “Be careful, it's almost full.”
“Oh yeah, shoot!” He tips the bottle back before the juice spills over the old carpet. “Thanks, do you need help—?” Before you could say something, a shrill ring of a phone interrupts you both. He takes out his phone and winches. “Sorry, it's my dad…”
“No, it's okay, go ahead, I'm good over here.” You wave him off, and as he leaves, you notice him grimacing at the garland you just put up. “Shit,” you huff, placing the snowman down on the table as you make your way back to the ladder.
It's the last hurrah before the holiday break starts, and you're incredibly glad that you got hired into a company that has a week off during the holidays. So you definitely want to make the place look good or at least presentable to maybe impress your bosses.
The metal creaks under you while you climb up the highest step. You stretch yourself once again as you pluck the garland out to fix it. Something almost falls from within the thick garland, and you catch it in your hand before it falls. Opening your palm, you see a mistletoe all bundled together with a red ribbon. You stare curiously at it since this came from a box labeled ‘office holiday decorations.’ A mistletoe at an office party? Is that even appropriate? You chuckle at the thought.
“How's the weather up there?” A familiar voice asks and you crane your neck so fast that you accidentally fling yourself from the rickety ladder, grip loosening as your fingers brush along the cold metal step. “Oh shit!” You gasp as Hobie rushes in to catch you.
Bracing yourself for impact, you don't feel it as Hobie took the blow of the floor for you.
“Oh fuck, are you okay?! I'm so sorry, Hobie.” You take his cheek as he groans from under you. Your legs are beside him, accidentally straddling him while the mistletoe lands right on his chest— right in between the two of you. “Are you hurting anywhere?” You ask, frazzled and worried.
Hobie lifts up his head with a wobbly grin, eyes gazing at you softly then over to the fallen mistletoe. “Does this still count?”
You follow his line of sight. “Wha— Hobie!” Your cheeks run heavy with warmth when you realize what he's talking about. As you look down, your eyes are fixated on his goofy grin and handsome face. His wicks frame around his face, piercings glinting under the blinking Christmas lights.
“Why do we always find ourselves like this, lovie?” He reminisces about the time you fell on him during Lyla's earthquake scare while you're just trying to even out your breathing lest you fall unconscious on top of him.
“What happened?!” Jessica comes running after the sound of the ladder clatters on the floor. You're immediately rolling off of Him on the floor before she could even wrap her mind around the position you two were in. “Are you two okay?”
Hobie, still on the floor, lifts his hand and gives her a thumbs up. While you could only look at the carpet and how it feels under your clammy hands.
The rest of the office follows, all clambering over each other to witness the commotion. Miguel groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, while Lyla gasps at the scene in front of her. The lunch club walks in, eyes wide before shifting their vision over to a very flustered you and Hobie, who's still a puddle on the floor with the mistletoe on his chest; they all give him a knowing smirk. Meanwhile the camera crew are running to check if the mounted cameras captured the scene.
“If you're hurt, you gotta file a worker's comp, Hobie.” Lyla shakes her head when Hobie dramatically groans as he stands up weakly. “C’mon, man, you know I'll still give it to you without all that.” Miguel glares at her. “Pretend you didn't hear that.” She tells him.
Miguel could only wave it off with a scoff and returns back to work. Hobie gives you a hand, but before you could reach for it, Harry returns and helps you off the floor himself, earning a glare from Hobie.
“Are you okay?” Harry asks you after lifting you off your feet. “Nothing damaged?”
You shake your head, “no, I'm fine, Hobie saved me.”
The two men meet each other's eyes. Their jaws are set, moreso with Hobie while Harry looks more annoyed.
“Are you sure you're okay, Hobie?” You crane your neck and take your attention away from Harry to gaze at Hobie worriedly.
He cups your elbow and gives you a genuine smile. You haven't realized that you missed him this much for your heart to beat as loudly as it is right now. “Yeah, ‘m fine, lovie. Just glad I was there to save you.”
Lyla looks between you and the two men sizing each other up. She glances at Gwen briefly as cameras capture their knowing stares. “Alright, show's over!” She claps her hands together and shoos people away. “Y/N, are you really okay?”
“Yeah, I was just clumsy and good thing Hobie was here to save the day.” You flick your eyes to meet his own gentle look. Harry stays behind you, hands tucked inside his pockets while Pavitr picks up the ladder off the floor. “I'm really okay, I need to finish this.”
Stepping to the side, you head towards the table again and take out the decorations robotically as snow drifts down on the frosty glass. You say thanks to Pav before he gives you a smile and heads back to his desk.
“Good, Brown and Osborne, come with me.” Lyla says sternly, you've never heard that tone coming from her before.
“What?” Hobie asks while he stretches his shoulder.
“Why?” Harry groans.
“Because I said so, now.” She pushes them outside, leaving you alone with Jessica and the cameras.
“Damn.” Jess relays what you had in mind.
“Couldn't have said it better myself.” You look at each other before returning to work like nothing happened. Or you like to pretend to at least.
—
You don't know what happened in Lyla's office with Hobie and Harry, but the two are now avoiding each other like the plague, even more than before. Harry stands near the plastic Christmas tree, nursing a red plastic cup filled with punch. His jaw is clenched, shoulders kept straight and aligned to the wall behind him. He looks like the grinch with all the holiday lights and decorations around him. A classic Christmas tune filters through the air while everyone chats around the room. It's peaceful, even Hobie, whose eyebrows were furrowed together when he first entered, is now happily filling his plate with food.
The camera crew stands on each end of the room, giving everyone space after a very irked Jessica told them to back off or she'll call security on them. You still have no idea why Miguel even lets them in to begin with. Or perhaps it's the big bosses on top who are letting them film for tax break purposes. There's nothing interesting to film in the company anyway— or at least one that doesn't include what happened earlier, or back at the bar, or in front of your apartment. Maybe they should just ask to film you instead of pretending they like documenting the day to day work of an electric toothbrush company. At least then you'd have enough money to have your own place.
Gayatri and Gwen are talking about their classes whilst you listen until Hobie saunters in with two glasses filled with eggnog, one bitten in between his teeth, and the other in his hand. And a filled plate that he has to juggle all together lest there's an accident on the old carpet. His button up is open to a more casual look, necktie nowhere to be seen, while his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing a few tattoos along the way. You spot a spider on the underside of his elbow, and a music note near his wrist. For once you thank the bright fluorescent lights for showing them to you.
You side glance at him, unsure whether the drink was for you or not. He can't speak with the drink in between his lips, so he wordlessly tells you to grab the other cup in his hand simply with his eyes and a muffled call of your name. With a chuckle, you take the drink and he can finally speak as he releases the rim of the cup and places his plate beside a sweet smelling baking sheet of caramel fudge brownies.
“Thanks, Hobie.” You smile sweetly at him, and the two interns share a brief look.
“Where's ours?” Gwen interrupts Hobie before he could even say the two words.
“‘m not an octopus, Gwendy.” Hobie scrunches his nose at Gwen, sipping teasingly at his drink, leaving a milk mustache on his upper lip.
“Fine, chivalry truly is dead.” Gayatri sighs and takes Gwen's hand as they glare at him before heading towards the food table where Miles and Pavitr are talking beside a plate of mashed potatoes.
“Can you believe them?” Hobie nudges you and takes the space where the two women were.
“Maybe they really like eggnog.” You joke with a smile, sipping casually at the warm drink. It's creamy with a hint of warmth lining your tongue. “Oh, you got a little something…” pointing at your upper lip, he wipes at his mouth, miraculously missing the milk mustache. “No, right…” you take a handkerchief from your pocket and wipe it for him. “...here. There, you don't look like a baby anymore.”
For a moment, Hobie looks like a deer in the headlights. Blinking, he composed himself, smiling through the fog of shyness. “Got it all, love?”
“Yeah,” you say, leaning against the table as you two gaze at each other. You suddenly feel a wave of déjà vu. “T–The eggnog is really good, Hobie. Did you make it yourself?” In your flustered stupor, you try to make casual conversation as he stares at the handkerchief in your hand.
“It's Ned's recipe, but yeah I made it all by my lonesome. You kept my handkerchief?” He almost said breathlessly.
“Y–Yeah, you said I can keep it— but if you want it back.” You try to hand it to him but he chuckles and pushes the cloth back towards you.
“Nah, ‘m jus’ surprised you kept it.” Hobie scratches the back of his head,
You flick your eyes to the checkered handkerchief. “Thank you again.”
“Stop sayin' thanks, love, your smile’s enough for me.”
“Cheesy.” You say, muffled against the rim of your cup.
“What's that?” He plays along as his eyes glimmer.
“Nothing, I just said you're a cheese ball, Hobie Brown.” You tease with a lilt in your tone.
“Everyone fancies a cheeseball, don't you think?”
The two of you chuckle whilst the party continues to go on without the two of you. The snow stopped falling outside, covering the parking lot and street with a soft sheet of snow as the world seemed to come to a standstill. The gentle piano rendition of ‘jingle bells’ plays in the background, while the laughter of your co-workers instead of clacking keyboard filters through your ears. Hobie gazes at you with the same fondness back at the bar before you had to walk out in the cold. And you mirror his expression, lips curled into a subtle smile, body turned towards him as you two cradle matching cups of eggnog.
With liquid courage courtesy of the drink, you finally ask him. “How have you been, Hobie?”
“Fuckin' busy.” He sighs, hand placed inside his trousers pocket. “The show on the twenty fourth got us all bloody busy. The interns can't join so Yuri and the others have to work twice as hard without ‘em. I don't have a stand in though. That's why I've been out of it these past few weeks.” With the tip of his shoe, he nudges your heels. “I've been takin’ my lunch with the band just to get an extra hour of practice in. Why? Did you miss me?”
“No one can replace Hobie Brown.” You nudge him back, earning a wobbly smile from him. “And no, I had the lunch club to keep me company.”
“Well, shit, and ‘ere I thought you missed my presence.”
“I’m pretty sure that's called a delusion.”
Hobie laughs, a deep rumble that has the whole room staring briefly at him. And unfortunately, the cameras too. But for the first time, you don't mind all the eyes and lenses on you when his laughter fills your chest with warmth. And you're pretty sure it's not from the spiced eggnog.
He opens his mouth to say something, hand reaching for your elbow but before he could say it, Miguel calls for everyone's attention.
“Time for secret Santa, everyone gather around in a circle—”
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Suddenly, out comes Lyla, dressed in a fluffy Mrs. Claus suit. It looks expensive to boot, and not like anything you see online. Does she use it every year? “I come bearing gifts!” She lifts up the giant velvet sack in her hands, barely lifted up from the weight of it. You remember that you had to put your present in the day before per Lyla's request. Your eyes nervously glance at the recipient of said gift.
Suddenly, Peter walks behind her, dressed as Santa, but in a blue suit rather than the iconic red. “We come bearing gifts!” He helps lift the sack over Lyla's head, earning an annoyed look from Lyla. It seems like they didn't talk about this beforehand.
Hobie shakes his head, smiling and clearly amused. “Fuckin' hell. C’mon, let's get our presents before Miguel gets to his fifth glass of eggnog.” Grabbing his plate, he slowly eats his way towards the slice of red velvet cake in the center that's crowded around by a mishmash of pastries and cold cuts. Your holiday cookies are piled up on his plate while he munches on poor frosty the snowman’s head. “It’s good.” He says, muffled by the cookie in his mouth. You chortle at him, lip bitten from tamping down a squeak of delight at his reaction.
You follow beside him, making a circle around Lyla and Peter. “Why, is Miguel a lightweight?”
“He gets to his sixth and he gets…chatty.” He offers you something on his plate, and since you already ate, you only took a mini muffin from it.
You can't imagine Miguel being chatty out of everyone whilst you munch on the tiny muffin. “Does he spill company secrets?”
“I wish, he talks ‘bout his personal life.”
“Ow, we better finish this quick then.”
You don't notice the way the interns are looking at the two of you from across the circle. Harry sidles up next to you on your left, biting into a kebab.
“Hey, Harry.” You smile at him.
“Hi, princess. Where'd you get the muffin?”
“From over…” Craning your neck to look for it on the table, you can't find the tiny muffins. “...I don't know actually.” You laugh unsurely. “I got it from Hobie.”
Hobie, without missing a second, says. “We're all out of it, bruv, that's the last one.”
Yep, definitely déjà vu.
Harry scoffs. “Right.”
You glance at the two of them as they avoid each other's line of sight. You really do feel like a referee whenever you're in between them.
“Alright, rules.” Peter says, and a groan echoes around the room. “Come on, we've got new people here so I gotta say it again. First of all, I hope none of you said who's your secret Santa before because you can only say that once after they open their present, capiche?” Another round of groans can be heard. “It's just not fun when everyone knows!” Everyone gives him an unenthusiastic nod. “Second, no second rule, just have fun!”
“That is the most dad thing I've ever heard.” Gwen says, and Peter dramatically frowns.
“It’s because I am a dad, Gwen!”
“Alright, enough, let's start because the lasagna isn't agreeing with me right now.” Miguel gruffly says, fifth drink in hand.
“Great,” Hobie says sarcastically. “‘Too much information' Miguel is ‘ere.”
Miguel scrunches his face and plops himself beside the dessert table. All without giving Hobie lip.
“Wow, he just accepted that.” You say, surprised.
“He gives up after his fourth drink.” Hobie bumps his elbow with yours as you two laugh. Unbeknownst to you, the camera is zooming in on Harry's disgruntled expression.
One by one, names are called to grab their presents. Some are happy about their gifts, like Miles, who got an old CB radio from Peter. But most are trying their best not to disappoint the person who got their name. Just like Gwen and her stuffed bunny rabbit gifted by someone in I.T. and like Miguel, who got a pair of airpods which Hobie reacted with a coughed out ‘arse kisser.’ No one dared to say who it's from after that. You have a feeling it's from Harry since he has a similar pair. It'll be revealed after everyone gets their presents anyway.
“Alright, this one is for… Hobie!” Peter exclaims as he hands the neatly wrapped present to him.
You bite your lip, fingers playing with the hem of your sweater as he opens the gift carefully. You only hope that he likes it since it took you so long to finish it.
Hobie whistles out as he admires the vintage leather jacket. “Damn.”
His finger skims over the metal buttons that you painstakingly polished and then over to the stitched holes that you carefully stitched to make different patterns of. You're not a seamstress of sorts, and you had to watch a sewing tutorial on how to make a lightning bolt simply with a needle and thread. The aches and blisters on your fingers are evidence of that. Turning the denim around, his eyes widen at his band logo that's stitched at the back. He recognizes it from a band t-shirt they used to give out. The fabric was cut from the front of it and then stitched on the back with neat running stitches. At the hem, his initials are painted in big bold letters.
“I said not to go over the limit.” Jess has had enough of the expensive gifts.
“I–I didn't.” You blurt out and everyone turns to you. Hobie included as his smile grows. “I thrifted the jacket and I made all the restoration myself. I didn't go over, it's even below the budget.”
“Okay, sorry about that.” Jess sighs, still clutching the hundred dollar gift card to some baby clothes shop. “Still,” she waves it around to make a point. “I see a pattern.”
“It's okay.” You resist the urge to meet with Hobie's eyes, or anyone's on that matter.
“You got this for me, lovie?” His voice is an octave higher, like he can't believe that you'd work so hard on a present just for him. Especially something that's so meaningful to him.
“Yep,” you pop the letter ‘p’ to hide your bashfulness. You finally gather the courage to look at him, finding that his warm honeyed eyes are looking at you softly that you forgot what just happened. “Do you like it?”
Harry side eyes the two of you, skimming over the band logo with a heavy look.
“I fuckin' love it.” Hobie says with a breathless sigh. “Where'd you even get the shirt? I lost mine years ago.”
“I asked MJ if she knew where to get it, she tried but couldn't find it so she told me to try talking to your band mates.” You nervously pick at your nail, rambling on. “Turns out Ned still had his.”
“Let me guess, he got you to pay a pretty penny for it, hm?”
You shake your head with a chuckle. “No, he gave it to me for free, as an apology for the bar. He's actually quite nice.”
“Good thing you asked him and not James. You picked the nicest one of us.”
“Please, you're plenty nice too.”
“‘m nice to those who deserve it, love.” He puts on the denim jacket, all the while watching you in the corner of his eyes. Thankfully, it fits him like a glove, except for the sleeve that's a few inches shorter, but he doesn't seem to mind while he has the biggest grin on his pierced lips. “How do I look?”
“You wear it well.” Is the only sentence you could manage that doesn't have the word ‘handsome’ or ‘gorgeous’ in it.
“Thank you, love.” He rubs the rough denim, smiling like a kid who just got what he wanted for Christmas. “It's perfect. I also have—” Your name gets called suddenly, interrupting his words.
“There you go, kiddo.” Peter hands you an expensive looking paper bag that's all tied with a sparkly navy blue ribbon.
“Oh, thanks.” You mumble out.
You were planning on opening it later after the party but since everyone opened theirs already, you suppose you had to. It feels like a birthday party of sorts where everyone’s singing you a happy birthday while you could only stare awkwardly at the candles on the cake. The cameras come around you, not trying to miss anything. Unwrapping the ribbon, and feeling like a goldfish inside a tank, you put your whole arm in the bag, feeling something smooth inside as you pull it out. The paper bag drops by your feet as you gasp at the gorgeous antique looking box in your hands. It's about the size of a textbook, it has some weight too.
“What's in the box!” Peter acts and you immediately get the reference to it. While most people rolled their eyes at it, you and Miles chuckled at the joke.
You run your thumb across the peony flower engraving around the metal clasp. It's well made, something you see at some expensive antique shop that looks like all the items are either cursed or haunted. Now you're afraid that when you open it famine and disease will escape out of it. But as you unclasp it, rows of vibrant paint tubes greets you. There's a handful of paint brushes along the top of it, by the looks of it, it's just as well made as the box. With a nervous chuckle, mouth agape, it seems that not just the bosses got the ‘arse kisser’ gifts.
Jess huffs but shrugs, accepting that people have gone over the price limit. At the end of the day, it's just a nice gesture.
“Who?” You instinctively look at Hobie, cheeks warm at the prospect of him being your secret Santa. But he just shakes his head, mouthing ‘not me.’ Then you look over to the group of interns and they all mirror Hobie's gesture.
A tap on your shoulder has you looking over to your left. Harry smiles softly at you, green eyes shining.
“Don't worry, I got it on sale.” He whispers to you, index poking the side of the box. “I saw your paint set back at your place, most of the tubes were almost finished so I thought I'd get you some new ones. This is what they call serendipity, I think. ”
“Harry,” you sigh out while everyone has moved onto you and your expensive looking gift over to Gayatri and her secret Santa present. “This is too much. I think there's every colour in here.”
“That just means you don't have to buy new ones for a while then.”
“I would've settled for just one tube.” You lean closer so as to not disturb the rest of the party with your conversation.
“Can't, you deserve all the colors of the rainbow.” Harry comes closer until his shoe kisses the side of your heels.
“This is definitely more than the rainbow, Harry.”
“You're welcome, princess.” He nudges you, hand lingering on your bicep.
Hobie swallows thickly next to you. The camera crew are eating it all up it seems.
Peter gasps as he lifts up his present, interrupting you and Harry. “It's a dragon onesie!” A crocheted one in fact as you chuckle at his reaction.
“It's for Mayday so don't try to wear it, mate—” A strained cough roars above the merriment.
Everyone looks over to the source where Miguel is hacking out a rough cough, a swollen hand clasped around his neck as he wheezes out. A caramel brownie falls from his other hand, rolling across the floor. Your eyes widen with panic as he keels over on the carpeted floors, bumping on the dessert table as food tumbles out and decorations falling while he's still coughing.
“Shit! He's choking!” Jessica runs over to him, palm slapping Miguel's back.
Everyone crowds around Miguel in a panic. His lips are swollen, eyes red as he continues to choke.
“I'm calling an ambulance.” Gayatri has the right idea and dials the number.
“Move over!” Harry speed walks behind Miguel, arms wrapping around his middle and trying to do the Heimlich maneuver on him.
Gasps echo around, worry and panic setting in.
“He needs CPR!” Peter argues with Harry and Jessica while Gayatri’s frantic call to emergency services roams above the voices.
Hobie crouches down, grabbing the fallen brownie on the ground and smells it. The harsh lights of the crew and their added space makes the situation worse and claustrophobic. Not an ideal environment for someone who can't breathe.
“What—?” You ask and Hobie has a lightbulb moment.
“Peanuts! There's bloody peanuts in this!”
You immediately push people away and bolt over to your desk, rummaging through your bag for the orange cap and leaving the paint box on your table.
“Does anyone have an epipen?!” Jessica yells in a panic, but you're already pushing Peter away from trying to do CPR on Miguel as the needle meets Miguel's thigh in a quick and practiced motion from you.
Within a second, Miguel inhales deeply, colour returning to his lips. His fingers and lips are still swollen, but at least he's breathing much better now.
“Holy shit!” Harry exclaims, eyes darting over to Miguel and over to you with something flitting across his expression.
“Holy shit.” Hobie says breathlessly, mirroring the same expression on Harry's face. You can't quite get a good read on them as you heave, hand still clasp around the epipen. Are they impressed or something?
“Damn, newbie.” Lyla pats your shoulder, then a round of applause follows around. You almost cower from embarrassment.
You look at Hobie, who's still fixated on you. “I always have one on me since MJ’s also allergic to peanuts.” You explain since he might be wondering why you carry it around. He smiles at you, eyes twinkling. “Keep that in mind, Hobie.” You say since they spend a lot of time together.
“Sure, l–love, whatever you say.” He stammers out, crouched across from you. Even when everyone pats you for a job well done, he can't keep his eyes off you.
“Nice save, princess.” Harry says, nodding and grinning at you.
“F–Fuck.” Miguel groans out a laboured exhale, head slowly lifting up. “Thank you.” You curtly nod at him, pride filling your chest.
“Alright, everyone, give Miguel some space!” Jessica shoos people put. “He needs some air.” The documentary crew gladly filters out and weirdly happy that they got some interesting footage. A bit fucked up, you thought.
“He still needs to go to the hospital.” You say as Hobie helps you up on your feet. Miguel is still on the floor while Jessica and Lyla tend to him.
“Ambulance is on the way.” Gayatri nudges you as the group gazes down at Miguel. “What else do you have on you, girl scout?”
“Narcan and antihistamines.”
“Shit,” the lunch club gasps in tandem.
“Remind me to always bring you when I go out to dinner at the seafood place.” Gwen shoves you lightly with a smile as you mirror her expression.
“Does this mean the party's over?” Peter asks and everyone just stares at him.
—
“Love, wait!” Hobie runs after you, sliding on the ice as he tries to keep himself on his feet. You stop and open your arms to catch him mid slide. He collides against you in a flurry of snow and giggles. “Sorry!” He laughs in your arms and he feels warm despite the weather.
“What's got you running on ice?” You laugh, a puff of smoke filtering from your cold lips. Your hands are still on him, and his touch lingers for a second before he pulls his backpack out and grabs a wrapped present inside. “Secret Santa's over.” It's merely a whisper as you stare at the brightly wrapped gift with ballpoint doodles all over it.
“I know, I jus’ wanted to give you somethin'.” He inhales, eyes bright and soft under the glare of the snow. The denim jacket is tucked under his thick coat, peeking under it and you smile at the thought of him loving it so much that he's still wearing it.
“You don't have to, Hobie. I told you that I already forgave you.”
His palm rests above your own. “It's not an apology present. You're my mate, and I give presents to my mates.”
There's warmth behind your eyes as you lean over and hug him without second thought. Hobie embraces you back, chin tucked on your shoulder while he smells like eggnog and cookies.
“You haven't opened it yet.” He chuckles, breath fanning the shell of your ear.
“I know.” Moving away, his hands hover around your sides for a second or two before fully leaning away. “I just wanted to say thank you. You made working here bearable.”
Hobie inhales shakily as he stares into your eyes. “You make it sound like you're leaving.”
“Not leaving just yet, Hobie. I've got rent and debts to pay.” You hug the soft present against your chest, his smile doesn't leave his lips while he gazes softly at you. “Can I open it here or…?”
“You can open it.” He says immediately, chuckling nervously while he scratches the back of his neck. “It's something for the concert on the twenty fourth so you don't have to borrow anymore.” Sniffing, he gestures at the present with his head. “You're still goin’ right?”
“Of course. You and MJ have been working hard on it. I won't miss it, I promise.” Your words have him grinning even more.
Carefully unwrapping the present and unfurling the blue crêpe paper, a black crocheted cardigan greets you. The soft thread has sparkles weaved around it, and when the light hits it, the whole thing almost glows. You choke on a gasp.
“Shit, did you make this?” You ask, impressed and happy.
“I did, I hope it fits because I jus’ fuckin' eyeballed it.” Hobie says with a bit of nervousness. “Look at that, you gave me a jumper and I gave you one. It's serendipitous.” He chuckles out the last word. “It's not a leather one, but I think this suits you.”
You can't help but reach for him and hug him again. “You’re right, it looks comfy. Thank you, Hobie, I love it.”
He pats your back, and you can feel his face tug into a smile. “‘course, love.”
A car horn honks behind you, and Harry rolls down his window, waving you over impatiently. You and Hobie unlatch yourselves away, and with him holding you at arm's length.
“In a bit!” You gesture back as you turn towards Hobie one more time. Not knowing what to say next, you could only bite your lip bashfully with a smile. “Thank you again, Hobie. I'll see you at the concert.”
“Bye, lovie.” You begin to walk away but he calls you back. “Oi,” he gets your attention and Harry's. “Drive carefully, yeah?” You realize that he's talking to Harry and not to you.
“I always drive carefully, Hobs.” Harry scoffs, getting out of his car as snow crunches underfoot. He goes around the hood to open the passenger side and waits for you.
Hobs?
“‘course you do, prick.” Hobie says under his breath while you enter the passenger side and give him one last wave.
Harry glares at him while he returns to the driver's seat. Rolling up his window, he turns to you, eyes softening as you meet his eyes. “Ready to go?” He glances briefly at the cardigan in your hands.
“Yeah.” Your smile doesn't fade.
—
The concert wasn't what you thought it would be. Instead of a dark bar with crusty seats and sticky floors, you stand in a decent domed concert hall that has food vendors to the side together with the various band merchandise. Both teenagers and adults attend the event, smiling and listening to a pop group playing on stage. There's still bright lights flickering in and out, spotlights shining around while the sound system booms and bounces all over the walls. Above the stage, a banner reads 'F.E.A.S.T. annual children's hospital benefit.’ Now you feel silly when you first thought that you'll once again tread around a bar.
“Are you sure you want to come here instead of the movies, princess?” Harry loops his arm around your hips, palm resting atop your side comfortably. “They have 4D. Y’know the ones that spray water on your face.”
“It's a charity, Harry.” You hold the back of his hand, craning your neck to look at him.
The first ‘dinner’ wasn't just a regular celebration dinner at all. Turns out it was an actual date, and you only realized it when he picked you up from your place and handed you a sweet smelling bouquet of flowers. He did the whole thing too, opened the car door for you, pulled the chair for you. Shared a slice of cake for dessert with you, and even secretly paid for the whole meal when he said that he was only going to the bathroom. He was sweet the entire time, a lot more talkative outside of work and the regular car rides, but a good date nonetheless. Immediately after walking you to your front door, he asks for another date with a sheepish smile. You said yes. You did promise MJ that you'll try. So try, you did. Then after a coffee date, you two went to a drive in theatre. The next thing you know, you two are already on your fifth date. Or is it your fifth? You lost count after the butterfly sanctuary date.
You haven't kissed him, apart from a chaste peck on the cheek, there's no lip locking. And he hasn't asked for it nor made a move to kiss you either. It's alright though, you're still not ready to seal the deal just yet. Maybe it has something to do with today, or maybe with a certain someone. You like Harry enough, but there's a nagging feeling on the back of your head for some reason.
“I know, it's just— you know what, this is nice.” Harry relents and pecks your temple. That'll need some getting used to. “I saw a Korean corn dog stand over there, do you want one?”
You're too distracted from looking for the band and Hobie's familiar gait. “Yeah, sure, Harry.” Turning back to him, you squeeze his hand. “I'll wait for you at the front.”
“You sure?” With a nod from you, he unwraps his arm from your side. “I guess I'll call you if we get separated.”
“Yeah, I'll be fine. This isn't like the bar.”
Chuckling, he pats the small of your back before walking towards the food stalls. And you see the familiar camera crew looking around, befuddled and looking lost. You immediately, yet subtly walk away, hoping that the crowd will help camouflage you.
As you make your way towards the front, you see MJ's familiar head of red hair. “MJ!”
She turns around, squealing and bounding towards you. “You made it!” Hugging you, she squeezes the life out of you. “Is that new?” Her eyes flick over to the black sparkly cardigan you have on.
“Yeah, it was a gift.” You hold her at arm's length as she bounces on the balls of her feet excitedly. The rest of her band stands behind her, all visibly excited as they give you a friendly yet quick greeting. “Remember to breathe, we don't want a repeat of the talent show.”
MJ rolls her head back and groans audibly. “Don't remind me! I still have nightmares from it! Good fucking thing we're not on for a little while.”
“Oh, I thought you guys were playing first before Hobie's band?”
“Change of plans apparently. They get to go on first.” She says as the spotlights go wild after the band playing on stage bows to the clapping crowd.
“Where are they anyway—?”
“So where's the new guy, huh? I need to see if he's hot so he can get my approval.” She tugs you to her side, bouncing up and down.
“He's not my— he's buying me a corndog.”
“A man after your own heart, I love that.” She pokes your chest.
You rub the point where she poked you. “Yeah, I guess so. Where's Hobie, I need to wish him luck—?”
A loud guitar riff bounces around the walls, signaling the band's arrival. The lights turn blood red, and the crowd goes wild at the sight.
Hobie looks stunning under the light, wicks pulled together in a ponytail, top almost sheer as it shimmers in the spotlight. His pants are tight and flared at the bottom, all tied together by silver accents, a belt that has a spider on the buckle, and numerous rings and necklaces on him. But most of all, the jean jacket you gifted him fits perfectly on him. He put his own spin on it, adding his own flair with a few buttons and patches while the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. It all made you smile.
MJ screams each band member's name, voice cracking when she yells Yuri's name. Her band follows behind, fully screaming out together with the audience. MJ leads you towards the front to see them better, clutching your arm tightly and grinning brightly.
“Hobie!” She screams at the top of her lungs, earning a guffaw from you. “She made it!” Pointing at your head, your heart almost lurches in your chest when his eyes meet yours.
Immediately, the nonchalant look turns soft for you. But as quick as it came, he cranks his charm to a hundred and winks at you. A few people shriek, thinking that the wink was intended for them. You aren't sure if it was even for you.
The lights make his eyes glow bright red, skin looking like it's on fire as he shreds his guitar. Yuri's almost haunting singing voice adds to your swirling thoughts.
“Let's go, Hobie!” You add to the screaming fans, cupping your mouth with your hands for added volume. It has Hobie almost cracking a smile as you see his lips tug up, and he's clearly fighting with it as he swallows.
MJ guffaws, following your cheer with another.
“Hey,” Harry appears beside you, eyes flicking over to the band briefly before turning to you. “They ran out of corndogs!” He yells above the music.
You miss how Hobie sneered at the sight.
“That's okay!” You grin, yelling back. “Just enjoy the music, Harry!”
“Yeah,” he nods, and you feel his hand wrap around your own. It's not weird in the slightest since you two held hands before. “You must be MJ!” Harry leans in front of you, making you stand on your tiptoes to see Ned playing on the drums.
“What?! Oh you're the guy!” MJ does the same, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you! You better take care of my girl!” You almost shush them both.
“I will, don't worry!” Harry nods and reciprocates MJ's fist bump.
MJ stands back up, “I approve.” She whispers into your ear, giving you a thumbs up.
You chuckle, putting your arm over her back to half hug her. You wonder if Hobie can see the three of you clearly while he's on stage. Or if he knows that he's got people rooting for him. MJ hoots and hollers, and you feel a hand cupping your cheek, moving your head towards Harry's face.
“Yeah, you okay?” You ask him, smiling until you feel his lips on your own. And the sound of a wrong guitar chord squeaks out.
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