Dylan ends up joining Grayson Agency after the incident half out of not wanting anyone to go through the same pain as theirs and Jeremiah’s family, half out of wanting to make Anne safe.
Anne: I promise to put your dreams before mine.
Jeremiah: I promise to bottle up my repulsion at the sight of your hair in the drain.
Anne: I promise to earn no more than 70% of what you would make at the same job.
Jeremiah: What about babies?
Anne: What about ‘em?
Jeremiah: How many?
Anne: Pick a number, dick! Like it’s up to me!
Dylan: What in god’s name are you two doing?
Anne: Getting married. What does it look like we’re doing?
Jeremiah Blackwell’s death won’t stop him from trying to help his friend.
Notes:
I physically can't stop writing about these Dust bbs. Title is from the song "Dead Hearts" which I highly recommend for all your Dry-River-kid feels.
Wrote this awhile ago, but I miss Dust a lot and I just realized I never shared this on tumblr. So, here ya go. Or you can read it on ao3.
Content warning for canon-typical blood/death.
The moment of his death swells like a blister around him. The sheriff’s face is purple, his eyes wide and wild, and Jeremiah knows him but can’t recognize him, not like this. As he falls, the edges of his vision turn red. He doesn’t even know he’s falling until he’s on his back, looking up at the stars. The stars look too close. And his body feels wrong, split down the middle somehow, like a cracked egg. A pulverized piece of fruit. He touches his stomach, and it’s warm and wet. He looks at his palm and it’s red. Bloody. Blood, yes, he knows blood, he understands it. But he can’t understand why there's so much of it, here, on him. Around him. Why his head feels like it’s swimming.
He tries to move but his body won’t work. And it’s only then that he feels it. Pain. Of course. Pain pins him down to the street, steals his breath away.
And then, out of nowhere, Dylan appears above him.
He thinks maybe this part is a dream. A hallucination. That is, until Dylan starts screaming and drops to his knees. “Oh my God, Jeremiah. Oh God oh God oh God!”
“Dyl,” he whispers. He’s feeling less woozy now, and the world around him is stabilizing a little, as if Dylan is locking everything into place.
“I gotta get help,” Dylan says, but Jeremiah reaches up, using all of his strength, and grabs his collar.
“No,” he breathes. “Stay.”
Dylan tries to lift him up, half-pulls him onto his lap. “Jeremiah,” he says, and his voice cuts through the night air, and it only occurs to Jeremiah now that he's dying. He can tell by the look on Dylan’s face, by how bloody Dylan’s clothes are getting just by touching him. The pain is fading, degree by degree, and this moment, which was boiling just a second ago, is going cold and quiet.
“Dyl,” Jeremiah whispers again. “I…”
“I love you,” Dylan tells him, sobbing and rocking him back and forth. “I love you, Jeremiah, I love you.”
And then Jeremiah feels something tug at him, like he’s being yanked upwards by his navel. And when he tries to look at Dylan again, all he can see is stars. Endless, deep space. Twinkling lights. Dylan is gone. No, he thinks suddenly, I’m gone. And then, everything is black.
And suddenly, Jeremiah is eight years old, sitting on a hitching post with Dylan and Anne. Swinging his legs back and forth. Dylan is holding a bag of bubble gum, passes it around. Anne always wins bubble-blowing contests, so this time, Jeremiah sneaks two pieces out of the bag, unwraps them in his pocket and stuffs them both into his mouth when she isn’t looking.
He chews fast. Speed isn’t part of the contest, but he wants to be the fastest anyway. Dylan looks at him, sees the way his cheek bulges out, and smirks. He can read Jeremiah like that, always knows his games. Just as Jeremiah is about to blow the world’s biggest bubble, something loud goes off, an explosion, a crack that rips through the sunny afternoon. The gum goes shooting out of his mouth—thwup—into the dirt.
And Dylan’s grabbing him with one hand, Anne with the other, shoving them both underneath the hitching post as the street around them comes alive and terrible. People are shouting. There’s a man down the way, lying motionless in the street. Blood is seeping out of him. Jeremiah can smell it, but it turns his stomach. It’s wrong.
“Kids,” someone says urgently from behind them, and it’s Sheriff Connors. “Oh God, Dylan. Anne. C’mere.” And he leads the three of them away, holding Anne and Dylan by the backs of their necks so they can’t turn around and see. But Jeremiah looks back, and with horror, realizes who’s been shot. It's Mr. Mathis. His familiar blue cap is blowing down the road now, end over end. Jeremiah glances at Dylan, whose face is screwed up like he already knows.
Inside Connors’ office, Jeremiah sits between Dylan and Anne. None of them talk as Connors tries to get hold of Mrs. Mathis. Anne’s face is ashen, and she looks much younger than normal, and she still has gum in her mouth like she doesn’t know what else to do with it. Jeremiah touches the two wrappers in his pocket. He vows to himself, right then and there, to let her win every bubble-blowing contest from now on. Every single one.
He flies through the dark for awhile. Maybe seconds, maybe years. Time doesn’t pass and it passes all at once. He doesn’t feel pain, cold, heat, wet, dry, flat or round. He feels confused, the confusion is the only constant. And he feels worry. Dylan. Dylan is somewhere, screaming. Dylan is somewhere, being restrained by the man who just cut him open. Dylan’s not safe.
But he can no more do something about it than he can stop flying through space. He feels propelled by his confusion and worry, and with this thought, he starts slowing down. He hovers. The black space around him becomes white, bright, almost blinding. And then, standing in front of him is Mr. Mathis.
“Oh, Jeremiah,” he says. He looks the same as he did when he died. Bullet hole still in his chest and everything. “Little Jeremiah Blackwell. I’m so sorry.”
Jeremiah looks down and, sure enough, he’s still ripped open. His shirt is torn. Blood everywhere. He looks away. “What happened, Mr. Mathis?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” his father-in-law replies. “I didn’t see.”
“Dylan’s in danger,” Jeremiah says, and Mr. Mathis’s face contorts a little, forehead wrinkled.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Connors did it.” Jeremiah says the words, even though they don’t make sense. “Connors killed me. And he’s got Dylan right now.”
And with that, Mr. Mathis touches him on the shoulder. “I’ll go back to the cemetery,” he says. “My spirit is stuck within that perimeter, but I just spoke to an investigator there. Perhaps he’ll come back and I can tell him.”
“What about me?” Jeremiah asks. “Can I help?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mr. Mathis says sadly.
“But I’ve got business to tend to,” Jeremiah says angrily. “Isn’t that the whole deal with ghosts?”
“There’s more to it than that,” he answers. “I’m afraid you need to move on now—”
“No.” Jeremiah grits his teeth, clenches his fists. He thinks of Anne, probably asleep right now, her hand curled up near her face. He thinks of the apartment he just got for them. They were supposed to move in two weeks. He thinks of Dylan. Dylan’s face, above him, in the stars.
And then he moves. Mr. Mathis looks shocked as he goes, reaches out toward him. “Jeremiah!” he calls.
“He’ll hurt Dylan,” Jeremiah snarls. “He’ll hurt everyone.” And then he descends, pushing himself back into black.
They took care of each other. The grown-ups were always busy, working, avoiding bad deals, bad blood. The Dry River kids had to look out for each other.
Mr. Mathis was killed by a Fang, so their mom told Dylan and Anne they weren’t allowed to play with Jeremiah anymore. But Dylan told him, “I don’t care what she says. You didn’t kill anybody. You’re my best friend. And she doesn’t gotta know, she’s working all the time.”
In a way, nothing changed after Mr. Mathis died. And in another way, everything changed. The three of them grew even closer. They had secrets now that only each other knew. They relied on each other, separate from their families. They built a private world where their friendship thrived, and it was in this world that he fell in love with Anne. Anne, neither Fang nor Fur but caught somewhere between, and never acted like she was. “I love my family and I love you,” she told him. “It’s simple.”
She made it simple for him, too. He loved his family, he loved her, he loved Dylan. There. Easy. Loving was simple. Loving was the easy part.
Time passes and doesn’t again. He feels through the space for Dylan. He’s not sure how it works, he's not sure of anything. Confusion still propels him. But he thinks of Dylan, steady and sure as he’s always been. Dylan’s face among the stars. Dylan, being handcuffed as he got spirited away. Dylan Mathis, his best friend, best man, brother. Come on, he tells himself, over and over. You’re always there for each other. Just do it one more time.
And when he finally comes out of the blackness, Jeremiah feels pain again. He’s in the wrong place. He doesn’t understand where he’s supposed to be or how he even knows the difference, but coming to this side feels wrong down to his core. His form wants to be somewhere else. But his heart wants to be here, in the sheriff’s office, with Dylan.
Dylan is in a cell, and he's changing. Hair is sprouting over his face and hands, his shirt is tearing at the front as his body swells. And then his cell door busts open and he’s rushing out. He’s grabbing Connors by the throat, pinning him against the wall.
Jeremiah can’t hear anything. He can’t see what else is going on in the room. He’s locked onto Dylan’s face, which is twisted up, agonized. His sharp teeth are bared, his eyes are bloodshot. Anger and pain is coming off him in waves and Jeremiah—already in pain—hurts to be near him like this. But he pushes through it, moves closer.
Dylan, he tries to say. Dylan. I’m here. Right here.
And then, Connors sinks a dagger into Dylan’s ribs, and Jeremiah screams without sound.
No!
Suddenly, Jeremiah hears his name coming out of Dylan’s mouth. He can’t hear any other words. Just his name being repeated.
“Jeremiah…Jeremiah…Jeremiah.”
And it’s like magic, hearing Dylan speak his name. Dyl's voice and his own name, two of the things he knows best. It's a spell that works to keep him here, helps ease his pain.
And then, Dylan pulls the dagger free from his body and stabs Connors with it. Drives it through his chest, his heart, killing him. Jeremiah should feel relieved—Connors can’t hurt anyone else now—except that Dylan’s already been hurt. He slumps against the wall, his fur melting back into flesh as he grasps his ribs. There’s blood. Too much blood.
Jeremiah reaches out, pressing his hand against Dylan’s wound. He can’t touch it, exactly, but somehow feels its heat. Instinctively, he concentrates until it feels cooler. Dylan’s half-transformed face twists into a grimace, but for a moment, Jeremiah thinks he sees a flash of a smile across his best friend's face. And in this moment, he knows that Dylan senses him. Senses that they’re close. Close like they’ve always been.
“He’ll be okay,” a voice says, and Jeremiah turns to see an unfamiliar man—spectral and glowing, tall, wearing a bloodied apron.
“Who are you?” Jeremiah asks.
“I'm Michael,” the man says calmly. “Trust me. He’ll be okay. But you shouldn’t be here. You need to move on, Jeremiah.”
Jeremiah glances down at Dylan. “I…I don’t want to.”
The man places a hand on his shoulder, and it’s solid and comforting. “I promise you,” he says. His voice is gentle, a balm to Jeremiah’s soul. “He’ll live. He’ll heal. He and Anne will have long, happy lives. And they’ll remember you. They’ll carry you with them wherever they go.”
And Jeremiah knows this is the truth. Knowing, like loving, is simple and easy. He nods and the man, Michael, smiles.
“What do I do now?” Jeremiah asks him, and looks one more time at Dylan, who’s being helped up by a stranger. A stranger with gentle hands, a stranger who cares about him, who is going to help him.
“Let go,” Michael suggests lightly, and just like that, Jeremiah does. And he’s back in the black space, flying up toward the stars. The confusion is gone, and instead, he’s moved by the love he feels from below. He smiles to himself in the dark, and lets love carry him along.
Anne: It’s cool that me and Jeremiah are getting married.
Dylan: When’s our culture gonna outgrow this wedding thing?
Anne: You’re anti-wedding now?
Jeremiah: No, he’s just pro-anti.
Dylan: Weddings are like little girls’ tea parties, except the women are the stuffed animals, the men are making them talk, and they're not drinking tea, they're drinking antiquated gender roles.
Jeremiah: Somebody tell Dylan what an analogy is.
Dylan: I know what it is. It’s like a thought with another thought’s hat on.
Liam: Look, I can’t get behind this marriage thing, either. It was invented back when “til death” meant “til your first cold.” I mean, life’s too long to spend it with someone else.
Dylan: It’s a sucker’s game.
Liam: It’s a mutual cop-out. Just nut up and die alone.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I physically can’t stop writing about the Dust kids, someone help
Summary:
The moment of his death swells like a blister around him. The sheriff’s face is purple, his eyes wide and wild, and Jeremiah knows him but can’t recognize him, not like this. As he falls, the edges of his vision turn red. He doesn’t even know he’s falling until he’s on his back, looking up at the stars. The stars look too close.
And then, out of nowhere, Dylan appears above him.
