#ic: atticus

[paradisecost]

Give us an accidental text from Atticus

[txt] you’ve yeed your last haw babe [txt] hawd your last yee, if you will [txt] Ah fuck. Wrong person! This was for Cpt haha ignore this.

[paradisecost-a]

Several seats away from Atticus down the bar, and old man freezes, his bourbon halfway towards his lips. His hat is lowered, and an eyepatch obscures part of his face, but the body language has already revealed recognition of the outlaw. Moments later, his drink is finished, and he leaves the saloon rather hastily.

@coming-xf-age

"Left in an awful hurry back there,” says a voice some distance behind him. It’s strikingly familiar: a friendly drawl with a razorblade edge, tinged with the South and dry as the plains. A little deeper, maybe- or maybe this is how he talks to folks he doesn’t like, and Rio’s just never been on the receiving end of it before. “A reaction like that, why, I’m pushed to think there’s somethin’ you didn’t like about my face. That hurts.”

He is, of course, waiting for the man to turn around. To turn and see Atticus’ revolver pointing at his chest: to turn so that Atticus can see him properly, get a good look at the face hidden under the patch and the low-brimmed hat. Something about the way he moves tells Atticus he knows him, or knew him, but movement alone ain’t distinctive enough to tell him just who it is yet.

“Turn around,” he says pleasantly, “And we’ll talk.”

[paradisecost]

“You may have found me, but you haven’t caught me yet.” - Atticus, from a runaway princess

Atticus only smiled.

“You think you can outrun me, go ahead. I’ll give you a head start.”

[paradisecost]

💋 varric and Atticus. To be frank, the dwarf is absolutely smashed and misses his bestie Hawke, who Yeehaw does not resemble at all but alas wishful drunk minds made due

it’s neck-kissin’ time

“You have had... far too much of this fancy... whatever you called it.” Atticus is snickering, enjoying the attention and the playful push-and-pull of the two of them fumbling at one another between glasses of too-strong liquor, though he knows it will go no farther than that. He likes Varric too damn much to do something as stupid as sleep with him half-smashed.

For now though, he tilts his head to let his friend’s mouth press hot against his skin, and hums in appreciation. He wraps an arm around Varric’s waist, the two of them sprawled clumsily in the flattened grass, and opens his eyes to see the stars swimming in the sky overhead.

They are both so stupidly drunk.

“Mnn.” Atticus turns his head, noses at Varric’s hair until he stops and looks up at him, then kisses the dwarf just once. “S’a bad idea. I mean it’s--it’s a real good idea, but--y’know, a bad one. We’re pretty far gone.”

[paradisecost]

A HATEFUL TEXT FOR ALAN, DEALER’s CHOICE

[spins a wheel] you get... atticus!

[txt] Better start running, boy. [txt] Bullet with your name on it.

[paradisecost]

In response to a letter

@coming-xf-age (from here)

It was cold that afternoon, and the city was quiet. In the spring months the town hall was a busy place, alive with noise and chatter, but December had brought with her fresh snow that kept most folks home, or sent them to the saloons scattered around town to keep warm.

Atticus, being something of a desert-dwelling creature, was freezing despite his layers of clothing. But he was still there outside the town hall at twelve in the afternoon on a Monday morning when everyone else had had the good sense to stay indoors. The town hall’s clock said he’d only been there ten minutes, but he’d still started to wonder if maybe Turner had forgotten about him--or that this was a set-up of some sort--when a movement by the corner of the building caught his eye and sent his heart racing.

“Turner!”

He was moving before he could think about it, closing the space between them in long strides, excited beyond measure--he’d known from the moment he got the letter that Charlie was alive, but to see it for himself, to know it--

He stopped just shy of too close, remembering where they were, and held out his hand to shake instead - smiling, of course, like an idiot.

“You’re a whole thirty seconds late, I was startin’ to think you weren’t coming. You, uh, you look well. I mean, aside from whatever the hell it is you’re wearin’. You look--it’s good to see you.”

[paradisecost-a]

❝ You think I’m frightened of you, man? ❞ Salvador @ Atticus, bitch i'll kill you

@coming-xf-age

“No sir, I do not.”

Atticus’ head lifts just slightly, the brim of his hat tipping up just enough that those dark, watchful eyes of his are visible underneath.

“But then, that friend of yours that swung for me wasn’t too frightened of me neither, and he maybe should’ve been. What with how things turned out.”

[paradisecost-a]

@coming-xf-age (from here)

Rio is adjusting his saddlebags when Atticus catches up with him, and he stills when he hears the voice speak. He reckons the deepening comes from being a little older; he remembers the man being young when they were in the same gang together. His tone definitely shows age and experience, as much as the old man assumed he had gained from the stories he’d heard.

Slowly, carefully, he raises his hands before he turns, just as methodically. “Well now, didn’t mean no offense,” there’s a tight laugh in his voice, finally lifting his chin to properly reveal himself once he’s fully facing Atticus. In the years since their last contact, Rio’s face has gained a nasty scar that cuts into his lip, and his hair is a lot greyer than it used to be. He wonders if the other outlaw will recognise him.

“It’s been some time, Atticus.” he says carefully, plainly. “From the tales I heard, I figured I’d best stay outta your way when I realised it was you. Better us both walk away from our chance meeting alive, I reckoned.”

“Smart man,” said Atticus lightly. He was studying Rio closely, his grip on the revolver relaxing: the moment Rio called him Atticus and not the name he’d known him by before, something in him had settled. He’d always liked Rio; of the few members of the old gang that were still alive, Rio was one of the few that Atticus might have hesitated before shooting. He looked different now--older, grizzled and scarred where he hadn’t been before--and Atticus was sure there were changes in him that were invisible to the eye too, but he was recognisable at least. Familiar in his easy manner; in the way he moved and spoke.

"You know,” he said casually, eyes flickering to Rio’s hands, “I always thought they’d send you after me. I mean, if they were gonna send anyone - surely it’d be you, right?”

After I killed anyone else that might’ve had a chance of getting through to me, he doesn’t say. That poor boy in the woods.

“You never showed, though. Why is that?”