Having a bad Norman Reedus movie binge party today! Uhhh but party is a strong word since its only me. Feel free to give me suggestions! Only BAD ones though. I've seen Red Canyon, Hello Herman, and Night Of The Templar. Starting today with Messengers 2 WISH ME LUCK
The Many Faces Of Norman Reedus - John Rollins, Messengers 2: The Scarecrow
Summary: A series of short one-shots based on different characters portrayed by Norman Reedus. John Rollins is tired of the constant struggle to make ends meet, but the reader offers him a little comfort.
Pairing: John Rollins x Reader
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1,384
Check out my bio for a link to my Masterlist!
Author’s Note: The first instalment of this little series that has been inspired by some of Norman’s work, other than TWD. I’ve been unwell and spent the past week or so crashed out on the couch, watching some of his movies. And, good or bad, I’ve fallen in love with pretty much every character. Hence my decision to try and write something for my faves. I’m keeping the Masterlist chronological, but I won’t be writing them in any sort of order, so don’t pay too much attention to that. And, if you’re looking for the Masterlist, it will be under The Walking Dead > Series, just to make things easier. I mean, Norman is basically Daryl, right? Made sense to me.
Anyway, this is my little drabbley one-shot for John Rollins from Messengers 2, based on a scene from the film. For the purpose of this, his wife has left him and run off with Tommy - if you know, you know. I actually really liked this movie - the shots across the cornfield were so pretty, and I liked Norman playing a daddy. Although he looks so damn young for his age at this point that he does not look old enough to play the father of Claire Holt (Vampire Diaries, anybody?). Also, I grew up on a farm, so I guess the struggle spoke to me a little. We didn’t have any creepy scarecrows though. I really hope you enjoy these little one-shots, and thank you for taking the time to check them out. Enjoy!
*****
The evening breeze whispered through the rows of corn, parched leaves swaying to and fro and casting dancing shadows over the dry earth. The landscape was crying out for rain, the busted water pump only adding insult to injury as long hours of hard work went to waste, the crops withering away before your eyes. You shut the blinds on the view, unable to watch your lover’s livelihood die, and instead turned towards where he sat on the couch, hunched over the coffee table as he flicked through a mounting pile of bills, punching numbers into a calculator. He’d spent the past few nights the same way, trying to figure out how to make your limited funds stretch a little further, but you could tell by the quiet huffs falling from his lips that it wasn’t going well. In truth, you thought he should try talking to Mary, asking her if he could owe her the child support he paid every month without fail. She’d left him, after all, when he’d been struggling, took the kids and moved in with a man with more than enough in the bank to support them. But you knew it was a matter of pride, that it was the one payment he would never miss, so, instead, you went weeks on end without electricity until you could scrape together enough to get it reconnected, lived on meagre rations, and spent every day toiling in the field, trying to coax the failing crops back to life.
John’s broad shoulders were rigid with stress as he sighed again, and you went to him, crawling onto the cushions behind him so you could press yourself against his back, wrapping your arms around his waist and tracing nonsense patterns over the faded fabric of his shirt.
“Hey, y’know I gotta do this.” He hated being interrupted when his head was full of numbers, of course you knew that, but his voice lacked any of its usual conviction, diluted by exhaustion and a sense of hopelessness that seemed to have permeated the very bones of him. So, rather than letting go and moving aside as you usually would, you just held him tighter, resting your head on the firm plane of his shoulder blade and smiling softly as it shifted and flexed beneath your cheek.
“Have the numbers changed since yesterday?”
“No, but-”
“So, no magical solutions have presented themselves?”
“Y/N…”
“C’mon, John,” you whispered, and you felt the moment he gave in, sinking back and sandwiching you between his tense body and the back of the couch. “You’ve gotta give yourself a break, baby. You’re gonna drive yourself mad.”
“M’letting you down,” he mumbled, the words so low that you barely made them out, though you could feel the vibrations of them through your chest. “Promised myself I wouldn’t. Promised myself I’d find a way to fix things. Already drove away one woman I loved.”
“Well, this one isn’t going anywhere,” you assured him, and your fingers found the knots in his neck, tight with tension, and began to work them out with firm, unforgiving strokes. He resisted for a moment longer, and then he melted against you, reaching back to part your legs so he could fall between them and let his head loll into the crook of your neck. His scruff was longer than you thought you’d ever seen it, taking care of himself so low on his priority list these days that he never made the time for things like grooming, but you liked the way it looked, the scratch of it against your skin. You only wished that it wasn’t a physical indication of his mental anguish. “I’ve told you before and I’ll keep telling you until you believe me: I love you, John Rollins. I chose this life with you, and I will stand by that choice every single day. We’re in this together.”
You felt him nod, chapped lips pressing a kiss to the column of your throat. “Y’know, I prayed today?”
There was a lot you could have said to that. When you’d first met the farmer, Church on Sundays had been a staunch part of his routine, so deeply ingrained that you’d known it’d be a deal breaker if you weren’t in the pew next to him for every service, but, as his struggles had increased, that dedication had fallen away, and you’d hated to see it, hated knowing that he was losing his faith. Now, you weren’t sure if he was talking to God because he was slowly clawing his way back or because he was just so desperate that he would try absolutely anything to improve your situation. “Okay.”
“Asked God if he could smite the crows. Told him how hard I’m trying; how hard we’re fighting to keep our home. And I thanked him.” He moved so you could see his face, piercing blue eyes locked on yours, mouth quirked in such a small smile that you might almost have missed it had it not looked so completely foreign after so many months of his expression naturally falling into a dark scowl. “I thanked the Lord for you.”
Your heartbeat faltered at that, and you dipped your chin so you could kiss him properly, drinking in the taste of him, sweet like the soda pop he drank with dinner. “I’m not so sure he can take the credit for that one,” you teased when you broke away, and his smile grew, a little crooked but undeniably there. “And I’m sure you can think of some better way to thank me.”
“S’that right?”
“Mmhmm.” The next kiss was more heated, and you knew it could lead somewhere beautiful if you let it, but it was still early. If you dragged him to bed now, you knew he’d be back downstairs in a couple of hours, poring over the impossible figures again, so you twisted instead, coaxing him with you until you were both stretched out on the sagging cushions, curling into his side when he invited you in.
“So, what are we gonna do about the birds?” It was dangerous territory, this slight shift in conversation back to the reality of your situation and the murder of black-feathered pests that were eating away any chance you had at making a profit after the harvest.
But, surprisingly, that seemed to be one question that he did have an answer to, and relief swelled in your chest. “I found a scarecrow hidden away in the back of the barn today. I figure, I’ll try putting it up. It won’t be enough to keep the whole field safe but it’s a start.”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
“Right? S’kinda creepy looking though. Might scare the kids.”
You thought on that for a moment, wondering just how creepy the thing really was and also unable to imagine why it would have been stored away at the back of the barn for so long that John hadn’t even known about it till now. “You’ve got them this weekend, right?”
“Yeah. Mary and Tommy are going out of town.”
“So, why not make one with them, instead? You’ve got plenty of straw up in the old hayloft, and I’m sure there must be some old clothes stashed in the loft that I can dig out. Might be fun, let them put their own twist on it; less scary at any rate.”
“S’not a bad idea.”
“I know.” You craned your neck to brush your mouth over his cheek, nestling in when he shifted even closer and letting your eyes drift closed when he fell quiet, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your fingers bringing you a sense of peace that you’d been craving for too long. In your mind, you pictured a sunny Saturday afternoon spent stuffing old sacking and patched up sweatpants until they were stiff and rotund, balancing a lopsided hat atop a hessian head, face inked messily in black marker. And you pictured John’s smile as he worked with his kids at his side, dark hair mussed by the exertion, dust clinging to sweat-slick skin. And you knew that, despite the hardships and the uncertainty and the strains of this life you’d built together, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
*****
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