#0fbabylon.

[punkzombie]

[ sms txt : kerry ] : Why threaten me with a good time? [ sms txt : kerry ] : Yes he came by and it was very weird. Don't think he wanted me to see him. He did our laundry

@0fbabylon

[ sms txt: Dee ] : idk why he thinks he can do that [ sms txt: Dee ] : he didn't go into my room did he? ????

[faithsine]

@0fbabylon asked:

rests against his chest, dark head weighted and neck slumping. has she fallen asleep? by the soft snores passing the open seam of her mouth, quiet against his collarbone, one might guess that the sleep she's fallen into is a deep one indeed —and one that should not be disturbed.

Desmond sits heavily in the armchair he'd found in town on the side of the road, the wood groaning under his weight. The room is dim, lit only by the warm flicker of a single lantern on the table, which casts shifting shadows across the sharp planes of his face. His unruly dark hair curls damply at the edges, still drying from the splash of water he threw over himself earlier. A faint sheen clings to his temples and the base of his neck, catching the light. His shirt hangs draped over the back of a chair by the fire, alongside his trousers and a towel, all drying after his laborious hand-washing. He wears only his drawers and a loose linen undershirt now, open at the collar, exposing the dark curls of hair on his chest and the faint silvered scars that stretch across his sternum and ribs—etched memories of centuries spent living and not living.

Madonna rests against him, her dark head tipped forward, her neck slumped, as though sleep has claimed her mid-collapse. Her breaths come in slow, quiet pulls, slipping through the parted seam of her lips. He feels the gentle rise and fall of her body against his broad chest, her small frame curling into him as though seeking something solid to hold on to. His chin dips slightly, resting against the crown of her head for a moment, his body warm and unmoving despite the ache settling deep into his shoulders and back.

He moves slowly, one large hand sliding to her back to steady her while the other threads through her hair. His fingers work through the tangles with patient care, the roughness of his calloused skin at odds with the tenderness of the gesture. The strands are long and dark, clinging stubbornly to his fingers as he combs through them. On his wrist, a braided leather bracelet twines tightly, worn dark with age, the fibers fraying slightly at the edges.

Scars map his arms, some faint and others jagged and bold, glinting faintly in the firelight. They tell stories he rarely lets himself think about, let alone speak aloud. His hand pauses briefly, resting gently against Madonna’s head as his chest rises and falls beneath her. His gaze drifts over the room’s sparse furnishings—the flicker of the fire, the cracked edges of the windowpane, and the carefully draped clothing hanging to dry. Everything here feels old, worn, and weathered. Like him.

He looks down at Madonna, his severe eyes softening as they trace the quiet lines of her face. Her hair frames her features in messy waves, her skin pale and drawn, though the furrow in her brow has finally smoothed in sleep. He can still smell the faint traces of alcohol clinging to her, mingled with sweat and the salt of unshed tears. Despite himself, his fingers return to her hair, stroking absently, the motion more instinct than thought. It soothes her. It soothes him.

“You’ve a way o' findin' yerself broken, lass,” he murmurs, his low voice tinged with tiredness. The words aren’t judgmental; they’re just tired, heavy. He'd been hunting for Kerry. He found some things for the kid. He was trying to help as much as he could, anyway. But it involved severed limbs and not getting caught. Blood bags. He was investigating blood bags, now.

His voice hangs in the quiet, as though the words are meant for her, for the room, and for himself all at once. He tips his head back, letting his curls press against the fabric of the chair. His boots, scuffed and splattered with dried mud, rest heavily on the worn rug beneath them, his legs stretched out and braced as if even in rest he refuses to fully let his guard down. He won’t move her. Not yet. Not while her breath steadies against him, her weight growing heavier with the depth of her sleep.

His free hand brushes idly against the arm of the chair, his fingers tracing the scarred wood. His wrist aches from earlier—hauling buckets of water, scrubbing clothes clean, foraging to keep the others fed. Kerry had wandered off somewhere, likely indulging himself in the spoils of Desmond’s finds. Desmond knew that the blond would eat and then find a way to hide somewhere in this small house in New Orleans.

[punkzombie]

@0fbabylon texted:

[ sms text : kerry lange ]: bestie you’re never gonna believe what i just swallowed

[ sms text : Dee ]: i have a feeling !

[punkzombie]

A note left on the countertop of Kerry's apartment, but no Donna to be found. The running bathwater in the restroom is a likely explanation: she was depression soaking. The note — written in loping script on a torn out strip of cardboard from a nearby box of Cookie Crisp cereal — reads:

Good morning bitch

You left your shoes in the sink (???) I brushed my teeth on them before realizing that I was getting toothpaste foam all over your sneakers (sorry). Please go to the liquor store for another box of wine. Be my hero.

Donna

Kerry squints at the note, his head pounding with the rhythm of a metal drumline. The fluorescent kitchen light feels like it’s boring holes through his skull. He blinks a few times, trying to piece together the chain of events that landed him here—on the floor, sprawled out like roadkill next to his lumpy and useless couch. His mouth tastes like stale beer and regret.

The note, scrawled in Donna's unmistakable chaotic hand, lays crooked on the counter. It takes a few attempts to focus his vision enough to read it fully. Shoes. Sink. Toothpaste. Wine. Bloody Jesus, she was gonna kill him. His lips twitch in the faintest hint of a smile despite the way his stomach flips.

He groans, dragging himself to sit upright. A dull ache blooms in his lower back—probably from the position he passed out in. He vaguely remembers stumbling home from the Star Sign, his pockets a little lighter than they should be and his liver a little heavier. The night had been a blur of poorly mixed drinks, cheap beer, and the bassline of some pop remix rattling his chest. Typical Saturday after a night at work.

The running water in the bathroom breaks through his hungover haze. Right—Donna. Depression soaking. He pushes himself to his feet, swaying slightly as his vision narrows. He grabs the note, rubbing his thumb over the cardboard as he rereads it, then, without much pause, he shuffles to the bathroom sink where he makes sure to not look at her. He doesn't say anything. Sure enough, his sneakers are wedged inside, wet with a minty residue. He stares at them, then lets out a soft, exasperated noise before it turns into a wheezy cough.

“ Well, I'll go bloody barefoot then. ” He drags his hands down his face. "I've got ya covered."