(dead end; or, the first thing I've written and completed in nine months. 1587 words)
Wakefulness arrived sullen and unseen, draped over Jimmy’s shoulders like too wet and heavy a coat, leaving him staring at the ceiling for some unknown amount of time before he even became aware that he was awake enough to be doing it. His senses came online one by one, each distilling new information that was somehow all the same: the low thrum of redstone power running through the base and whatever contraptions surrounded it, the tingling numbness of his nerves coming alive after hours without use, the wood grain of the ceiling blending together into one monotonous and dizzying sight—endless static from every direction.
The day began with the sort of feeling that doesn’t announce itself so much as arrives at the same time you do; it didn’t begin at one particular moment, not exist right up until it did, but rather simply was, imminent and indisputable—like a fact. Or like your shadow.
Dread was the friend you were embarrassed to be seen with when you ran into someone whose company you really enjoyed, the friend you knew you’d get asked about later and have no good excuses to offer up for their presence. The friend you gave too many chances and always lied through your teeth promising you’d let go. They were crass, they were rude, and they got into your head too easily and spun you around without pointing you in the direction you were meant to be going after. They never paid back the money they borrowed and always lost the things they asked if they could use. Which was to say it was an emotion Jimmy knew didn’t serve him but always too readily gave in to anyway, comfortable sinking because he was too scared to learn how to swim.
Dread festered like a rotten apple in Jimmy’s stomach, food poisoning churning his insides like spoiled cream into curdled butter, his guts preparing to toss everything vital overboard, empty their coffers, and abandon ship. It sat on his neck like too tight a collar, not quite choking him but providing just enough pressure that every swallow threatened return and every brush of fabric made him brace to expel. It hadn’t come on and it hadn’t given warning, Jimmy had woken up and it was there—and what was worse was he wasn’t surprised. He was barely upset. He just was and the dread was with him.
Jimmy had the strangest urge to go to the woods.
Something—someone—clung to him under the sole threadbare blanket their bed and their humble homestead could afford them. After Jimmy had been staring at the ceiling—coming to terms with the feeling of dread crowding him out of his own bed—for who knows how long, the person next to him sighed a sigh too wistful for the morning he was about to wake up into, and stretched like a cat—slowly, one extremity at a time—from sleep into consciousness. His face mashed into Jimmy’s bicep and his arm tugged softly at the squishy part of Jimmy’s side, and Jimmy, for all intents and purposes, kept on staring at the ceiling and settling into his discomfort—awake for longer but somehow still not in charge of his limbs and his being and his existence.
With a wet sound that said he’d been dead asleep just before, mouth unmoving for hours, Tango said, “Mornin’ early bird,” his voice somehow both rough and smooth at the same time. He rubbed his face more purposefully into Jimmy’s arm. “I like it when I wake up and you’re still here.”
“Do you have anything to do in the woods today?” It didn’t function at all as a response to what had come before it, and Jimmy hadn’t known it was going to come out of his mouth until it had already happened, leaving his brow to furrow and his mouth to tighten into a frown—the first movement he’d been able to perform since becoming aware that he’d been awake. Why hadn’t he gotten up to feed the chickens, the goats, the cows? Gone to the well to pump water for the day? Collected the eggs and started on breakfast?
Tango opened his mouth and closed it again—not in the way of being about to say something and changing his mind or finding his cue cards blank, but in the way of readjusting to wakefulness, or readjusting before falling under the spell of sleep once more. Anxiety pricked at Jimmy like a needle he kept missing the fabric with, stabbing into the meat of his own thumb more times than he could count, drops of blood staining the corners of the shirt he’d had to mend after one of their cows took a bite right out of it. Don’t fall back asleep. He said, “Tango,” too loud, too urgent, too fast.
Jimmy counted the seconds until he replied.
“Mmm, don’t think so.” Tango mumbled until it turned into a yawn.
Jimmy’s eyes were almost unbearably dry, still staring at the ceiling like he’d forgotten he was allowed to look anywhere else. It took him a moment to remember that he could blink, and then it took him another to remember how, and a comically long third to force his eyelids to shut and open again after.
“So you won’t be going in them, then?”
Still not awake enough to really be thinking about what Jimmy was saying any further than providing an answer, Tango offered, “‘spose not,” without understanding the gravity of the situation.
And the gravity was this: Jimmy woke up and dread woke up with him. He wasn’t anxious, he wasn’t upset, and he wasn’t angry. He had simply come to with a great and mounting sense of apprehension—not a fear but a surety that it was going to provide them nothing but grief—and a strange but unavoidably persistent feeling that he should be in the woods.
Jimmy swallowed before he spoke again. Threw a glance to the side and tightened the screw of his lips—unsure if he was trying not to cry or trying to convey that his next request was totally normal. “Promise?”
It was said in the sort of voice you said something when you wanted it to seem lighter than it was, giving away instead every kind of emotional weight you’d placed upon it in one terribly anxious bouquet. Tango’s arm unlatched from Jimmy’s side and slowly pulled all the way across Jimmy’s stomach, until he could flop over onto his back, the two of them lying side by side, overlapping only the slightest from where their arms had been buried beneath Tango a minute before. He sighed.
Jimmy closed his eyes, then opened them and blinked rapidly a few times. He took a deep breath and told himself he felt fine and it was all in his head until he was sure the contents of both his stomach and his tear ducts alike would stay where they belonged.
“Sure,” Tango placated. “Whatever you want.”
Dread was the mistake you pointed out that everyone ignored until it was too late. The place on the stair your foot landed that you knew was about to make you lose your balance and fall. The moment your health reached one heart and you dropped your shield just so that it would be over. It was thinking that something was wrong and only speaking up after the fact; knowing that something bad was going to happen and that you had to let it happen anyway.
The bed creaked and Tango sat up. He threw his arms over his head until one of his elbows made a noise that popped, and then sighed one final time and looked down at Jimmy, in the same position he’d been in when he woke up some minutes-to-hours ago. “Up and attem—woke up late, better start on those chores.”
He threw a leg over Jimmy with a small groan, and then did it again and ended with his second leg on the floor, but before he could stand and vacate Jimmy’s space, Jimmy made the very hard and very brave move of latching onto Tango’s arm with both of his hands. He didn’t tug, he just held on. Nearly every inch of Tango’s forearm was covered by Jimmy’s hand or Jimmy’s palm or Jimmy’s fingers.
Tango turned back to look at him, and for a moment, Jimmy thought he got it. Tango’s eyes looked from Jimmy’s too frantic to be casual grasp to his too peaked to be affectionate stare, and for just a beat, his brow furrowed and his eyes formed a question. And then by the next, it was gone. Tango huffed, Tango smiled, and Tango leaned over Jimmy to ruffle his hair with his unrestrained hand. “Come on, loverboy, gotta go feed the cows.”
He pulled out of Jimmy’s hands like they’d never been wrapped around him. Too casual, too unconcerned, and too easily. Jimmy watched Tango go, he counted to three, and he moved to get dressed only when he was sure he wouldn’t immediately puke upon the fresh clothes he was about to put on.
He shoved dread aside until it took up post somewhere out of the way but in the rearview mirror—where he could try and ignore it but would ultimately still feel it backseat drive. Jimmy grabbed the bucket of feed and went to go greet the cows for what hopefully wasn't the last time, and tried not to pay any mind to the trees, watching him from the window beside the bed.
So we know Kohga recognizes Link in the Yiga clan outfit, but do you think Sooga would? Like sure he seems smarter then then average Yiga, but it would be really funny if he didn't.
The smart answer? Yes. The fr answer? Yes, but he acts like he doesn't know, so he can praise Master Kohga for knowing.
As promised, here are a crap-ton of sexy David Harbour gifs that I have made the entire time I did my David Harbour Filmography series. It includes kissing, couple-ly things, and then gifs like this that just show how delicious this man is.
TW: // There are some gifs from A Walk Among the Tombstones in Part One, which is somewhat violent and insinuates abuse.
❛ how many times are we going to keep meeting like this? ❜
THERE ARE NO SUCH THING AS COINCIDENCES. people like to romanticize the notion regardless. they'll spout nonsense about serendipity, give a guy a chance because he happened to be a regular at the same coffee shop. and book shop. and bar. the truth is that that most people arent spontaneous enough to be a coincidence. more often than not, there's a pattern of behavior that lead to that moment. clark thompson didnt just happen upon anything.
" how many times are we going to keep meeting like this? "
she didnt need to turn around to know that voice. the baritone had just the right amount of attitude and dry amusement to annoy her. usually she wouldve had something to quip back, pushing his buttons, possibly finding a reason to ruin his expensive suit with blood and guts. yes, theyve built a rapport but she was never above being petty. only this wasnt another crime scene and she wasnt there as a marshal. hell, she wasnt even armed.
anita turned to look at the other, angling her body in such a way that exposed the cooling corpse to what little light shone in from the mouth of the alley. the body was torn apart by what could only be teeth though nothing sharp enough to rip through flesh and tendon. limbs broken into awkward angles, exposed jaw fallen open in a silent scream. unless there was a cannibal with inhuman strength in the city, she knew what had done this.
" depends, you know a good lawyer? " her tone wasnt jovial despite the joke, more of a grave monotone that only came with experience. since the moment she shook his hand, they began to find their paths crossed more often than not. while she wasnt sure she trusted him yet, she trusted that hes been paying attention. she looked back at the victim, crouching down in her yoga pants and nikes.
" because when people start getting eaten alive by zombies and leaving behind graveyard soil, the cops only have two necromancers in the western hemisphere to choose from. "
and only one of them stumbled upon a dead body off duty with a cambion.
