#american-spines

[amidstwillows]

@american-spines asked: "How about you and I do a little bit of robbin' to make dear ole Dutch happy?" Bill asks, obviously bored and sick of guarding the camp. "Unless that's too much for you?"

Teeth grind, chew, mash slices of canned peaches betwixt the back molars of his left side with such delicate care that it was close to ten minutes to completely swallow one. Yet it would only take one wrong jostle to set stitches to pulling at the fresh wounds that marred the better surface area of a cheek. As if he wished for more lectures or dotting on the behalf of one Abigail Roberts. To at no expense would he wanted yet another demonstration of emasculation in plain view for all to witness. So his task had been meek at best in the systematic and rhythmic way that his jaw had set to motion.

Most days he had been bade to or rather directed to remain in the core of the camps inner sanctum for rest and rehabilitation that would have remained a tolerated order had there been anything of substance than to spend time staring at the same blank canvas of dark tent walls. Many times imagination had only lingered back to the fangs of the creatures that marked him. The detail that almost life like when sleep had turned to nightmare.

Cumbersome and almost lumbering were the sways of Bill trudging up part of the hill of Horseshoe overlook. The third time that John watched this slow circling that, at measure, seem to wind the older man slightly more with each pass. Rotation became expected, yet upon the fourth iteration of this path -- a detour became prevalent. Every step brought the bearded grin closer and closer. A semi-look of an idea forming behind those chocolate hues -- as if there was a joke hidden somewhere in those depths. Never a good sign.

"Whats the matter bill? Ain't you got any friends to not go asking things of cripples?" , He speaks between chewing from his place at the wooden table, center of the camp. A returned half grimace half smile is pulled to reflect that of Bill's taunting one on the words laced with challenge.

[wildlcck]

Leaning over, Abigail leaves a kiss on Sadie's cheek. "Thank you." She said as her eyes drop to the floor. A little shyness taking over. A smile then soon creeps over her lips as she looks to Sadie. The smile fades quickly as she hears John's voice asking for Sadie

Why bother saying something to Abigail, in fact- he ignores her. "You ready?"

𖤓༻❁༺𖤓༻❁༺𖤓

❛ thank you... you're welcome, i mean. ❜ skin surely burning where her lips seared met it. the gesture got her giggling and grinning at her boots like a damn schoolgirl, for some reason. this woman. this feeling... these feelings of hers. a whole mess of them, rushing and overcoming. something that feels a little whole lot like love. a solitary, surreal sort of loving. without expectation or, reality it's a little like having a fever you want need to be rescued from, searing and delirious. but, not rid of. never rid of. ❛ abigail. i... ❜ but, you ain't supposed to think about other folks' wives and husbands. and women sure ain't meant to think about other women. not like this, anyway... like men but, they do it ain't right. it ain't illegal. it's a sin. it's as easy and difficult as breathing. well... her place in hell's long since been secured, anyway. ain't it? and since when did she ever do what she was damn well supposed to? ❛ yep- be right with ya, john! ❜ marston. a good man. a good friend to her. like family, even... friends aren't supposed to think about their friend's woman. not like this. well, what the hell is she supposed to do? when all she's got to offer is this love of hers. burning and searing in her chest. this love like a fever- a sickness. well, all she damn well can do, is take her hand in hers with a light little squeeze and a smile, sad and small. ❛ thank you, honey... ❜ ain't right

[amidstwillows]

@american-spines asked: "John!" Annoyed the fact that no matter how many times she yells his name, he won't turn around. Abigail marches up to him once more. "I asked you a question!"

The sun peaks through shaded pine needles casting shadows on skin of cream, dancing and billowing with each pass of wind displaying criss cross patterns of their forms on a bare wrist. Just cold enough to not forget winter, coolness that ebbs its way up a sleeve to the point that hands dart underneath armpits seeking warmth amidst the fleece coat hugging his core. Each bite of cold sending a shiver down a back leaning against the rough bark of the withering pine trunk. But its not the temperature that elicits this intolerance, this involuntary reaction. From his place at Horseshoe overlooks edge, he comes to patrol or rather chooses this spot -- gazing in the direction of Valentine to any that cared to observe him. Its whats past the town that he stares, towards the mountains, towards what felt like years spent in the span of a couple days. followed by the blinding sea of endless white at that height. All the while the song of wolves never fully drowned out by said gusts of wind ever threatening to send him over the precipice shivering... John seems to clutch himself even tighter then at the thought of those bitter moments he had wished he'd chosen better. How warm camp was as well as its people in their own way. Its comforts were all but smothering and even more so the moment his fatigue had set in while riding back on Javier's horse. Then silence from what memory allowed and throbbing of his face that even now continued to sting in disagreement to the remembrance. He would never live this failure down much less forget with a glance at what remained etched onto his very flesh.

"What do you want?", he speaks finally as if on cue, to the buzzing of her voice growing louder with each second. A demand, an octave that always found its way under his skin. Nagging, prodding to no end that would have set teeth to grinding if his jaw hadn't hurt so bad. By now John would have thought that the extended time in Colter doting and lectures while on bed rest would have satisfied her anger if not for her nerves. Though, he supposed that was just his effect on the female species -- if not MISS Roberts in particular. In truth, his eagerness for patrols had grown ever since he had regained some semblance of strength.

"Ain't nobody else back at camp?", the words come out harsher than the intent. An inherent wince in response to his own speech as if to prepare for the slap that usually finds its way to his cheek using any tone other than reticence.

[wildlcck]

@american-spines x

well, she was always the one with the words, wasn't she? miss roberts. the warmth. saying and doing all the right things. always. but, she, herself... well, it never did come all that easy to her. the right words to say. the right thing to do. and right now, in this moment, it feels damn near impossible. because, what use, what good can words do? words... choked back, unformed, half-lies. in this now so quiet world. this half-life, half-death of theirs. all she can do is be there. be here. for her. laying a gentle arm on her shoulder and pulling her to her. holding her together smoothing strands of hair carefully from that face, all stained with tears. voice quiet and deliberate. ❛ 'course i will. there ain't a chance in hell you're gunna be doin' this on yer own. we are gon' take care of each other. you, me. little jack... ❜ what about the others? the girls. the good folks. what's left of them. what about marston? the gang (or, what's left of it) still reeling from his absence. felt like a blade in the heart. or, one stuck and broken in two in the back. arthur's dying. no doubt about it. but, hearing the news... well, it was like the man's way to the grave had just been hastened. what'll become of everything? of everyone? ❛ you say the word an' we'll be outta here. quick as blinkin', honey... ❜

[wildlcck]

DUTCH (@american-spines):

"Arthur's changing." He stood a few feet from Sadie, looking out at the horizon of Clemen's Point. The air is still, not that a breeze would make anyone feel better about their situation.

He spoke to her, hoping to get some insight but didn't look in her direction. Dutch is starting to lose his mind. Was it that obvious?

"I'm starting to fear the worst."

𖤓༻❁༺𖤓༻❁༺𖤓

❛ arthur?! wh- the man's solid as a rock, dutch! he ain't the one you need t' be concernin' yerself with. trust me... ❜ damn near swallowing what's left of her cigarette whole at that! but. with their situation, their safety and world changing day by day, second to second, with one almighty price on his head and the law breathing down his neck every waking moment... so very many mouths to feed and lives on the line, in his hands- all that weight, on his shoulders... for all his fine talk and threads, the cigar, charm and charisma, he's greater and far larger than life itself, is mister van der linde. still. he's just one man, at the end of the day- he's just a man. and so, who could damn well blame him for being a little mistrustful, now and then? seeing shadows, shifts, in faces familiar, old and trusted. sensing doubt. suspicions. she doesn't envy the man- that's for damn sure. and so, she'll give old dutch the benefit of the doubt- for now. hear him out. if nothing else. ❛ changin'... changin' how? ❜

[mistermxrgan]

@american-spines

"What's what riding up your ass?"

[arcadiandefenders]

@american-spines sent: "You're   not   you   anymore"

horror tension starters part one (always accepting)

"I figured somebody was going to say it sooner or later but the truth does hurt eventually." Karl sighed, crossing his arms. "But yes you're right. I'm not me anymore."

[noconas]

american-spines asked: " we didn't save anyone, did we? " Abigail to Charles

* 𝐇𝐁𝐎'𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐔𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝟐.

Rain drums on a covered awning, washing away day into night clouded in mists - perfect, in a way, to hide in plain sight. Saint Denis's streets once a crowded space to which thronged life dispersed equally in men and women alike now stood desolate as a grave. Gaslights still twinkling fires in lampposts encased atop in glass fixtures evident to what living things still dwelled in its glow. Stragglers, some poor, others simply caught outside curfew to the sheer lock down of the entire city.

Heavy were the foot falls already having trekked the distance from the docks now inland. Hurried in some regards to the deputies occasionally closer than necessary, weaving from block to block in an effort to catch those who had seemingly slipped from sight. Charles hid amongst the unwanted, easy when his skin color had already mildly been seen as unacceptable -- having shirked the finery of a double breasted vest, necktie, and jacket. The stains that had dotted the cloth remnant of the blood that still congealed on the corpses of Hosea and Lenny now buried on the outskirts. A french dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck, sleeves rolled up to the elbows visible despite the mud caked to segments of white now partially hidden, cloaked in a dark cape that flowed down to his ankles.

All this effort to go back, an invisible hand that beckons, churning the sensation in a gut knowing there was still something or rather someone concealed behind stone parapets dire for help. In this, Charles recounts the gangs steps up until the point of the failed bank robbery. Mental sweeps guided by landmarks in an effort to look for what remained of the team to no avail. Soft almost unheard crying drowned out nearly to the white noise of the downpour all around heard in trained ears used to hunting.

Pausing, stepping, then pausing again straining on auditory cues to sound once again makes this pursuit of delicate notes last a lifetime of anticipation in the confines of an alley, in which, cut short with the flick of silver darting out grasped in a hand then sent immobile by his own mitt catching the wrist like instinct -- shaking it until casting away the dagger meant to pierce a broad chest. The struggle that ensues is short lived as each, caught in each others grasps respectively recognize the familiarity near friend shaped.

Dark strands of hair matt and stick to the straw of her hat and outline the sides of her face. Her natural blues like a well that spills over at first in the need to survive but also melt into realization of who holds her in place -- weariness etching into the fine lines of lips downturn. It's then that she collapses into him, sobbing clinging to near hysteria which he is a mere specter to and unsure of how to console besides simply remaining steadfast.

we didn't save anyone, did we?

"C'mon it's not safe here. We'll just have to see who made it back to camp.", He brushes a hand across the back of her shoulders, glancing periodically at their surroundings, ever in watch to the possible threat looming just past the shadow of a brick wall.