#warhaeds

[traightor]

the scene is saccharine sweet - evangeline, unable to keep up with washington's long nights. cheek rests on fur-lined traincar floor, blue eye opening when she hears steel-toed boot on metal. she holds her own tail for comfort. ' . . . good morning, ' she manages, hypervigilant in the dark. ' everyone is to bed, and now you are, too. ' ⭢ @warhaeds

[chmerical-a]

❝ㅤㅤ i  put  my  ring  𝘰𝘯  𝘮𝘺  𝘛𝘏𝘜𝘔𝘉  ( ... )  and  i'm  having  𝗧  𝗥  𝗢  𝗨  𝗕  𝗟  𝗘  getting  it  off.ㅤㅤ ❞

sc  (  x  )  ft.  @warhaeds

[chmerical-a]

[  cristina  yang  ↬  brandon  wash  ]  they  sent  me  home [  cristina  yang  ↬  brandon  wash  ]  can  you  believe  that??? [  cristina  yang  ↬  brandon  wash  ]  please  tell  me  you  can  entertain  me..  i  don't  do  late  night  tv

ft. @warhaeds

[traightor]

their height difference means everything to me

[traightor]

@warhaeds : ❛ you’re about as intimidating as a butterfly. ❜ ( random sentence starters, accepting. )

she smiles, pleased to be cleaning the dishes. john and helena have their bellies full, their skin all warm and cozied up in their beds. washington sits at the table, with his vice of the night, and she turns to look at him. intimidating, he says, and she shakes her head. she doesn't need to intimidate him, or anyone around him. she can be the warm, comforting hug as opposed to his sharp, angry slap.

" butterflies can be quite scary, " she smiles, tilting her head to him as she dries off the cup. approaching, she still hesitates to reach out to touch him, so she waits for him to touch her, if he wants to. " but i understand what you mean. is that a problem? should i be intimidating? "

[traightor]

@warhaeds : ❛   you can’t make homes out of people. someone should have taught you that.  ❜  

𝔰𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔱 𝔢𝔳𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔢.     NO ONE IS COMING TO SAVE YOU.  despite being outside, breathing in fresh - as fresh as one could be after the bombs dropped - air, her chest is tightened, reminding her of that box,  of how tight it was, how broken she was going to be. the scarred and marred flesh on her hands enough of a reminder that she was a commodity, an object to be had, and zachariah belmont had kept her nicely on a shelf like a porcelain doll, collector's edition.   she holds the last thing he gave her  to her chest, looking up at wash, tears streaking down her cheeks.  all she wanted was to be a caregiver.   a wife,  a mother.  and now, she is none of the above, nothing more than a toy taken out of its box, having lost all value.  she wanted a home, not a house; somewhere that could take care of her, rather than the other way around.

the item in her hand is a porcelain doll ( a wedding topper ) , stolen off of her shelf when she RAN AND RAN AND RAN out of the embrace of THE TRAITOR, and into the embrace of the WARHEAD.  despite his cruelty, he is firm with her - not mean.  he looks at her  and sees the ghost of someone else, but she doesn't mind.  until she can discover who she is,  SHE CAN FILL IN FOR SOMEONE ELSE.  someone who has the rot of anger in her belly already; someone who has already been given room to grow by brandon washington.  no one is coming to save you,  he tells her in no less than a few words, and the doll goes slamming into the ground below. her fists hit dirt, OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN.  she screams, her tears angry, her tears violent. it is an explosive thing, a broken thing, and evangeline st. claire breaks once more, like one would break a bone again to set it. hatred. it is hatred that sits in her bones : she, too, is broken like the porcelain doll. she, too, cannot be repaired.

she reaches for him to help her up , not yet able to stand on her own two feet. but the anger has been planted, wrath rooted in envy, wrapping around her precious heart until someone is able to cut down the briars surrounding her soul.  he brings her to her feet. 

life goes on.

[traightor]

@warhaeds : ❛   i also buried a part of myself alongside them.  ❜  

𝔰𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔱 𝔢𝔳𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔢.    the catholic faith teachers teaches that everyone must die and at death the soul is separated temporarily from the body until the second coming of christ at the end of the world. one is to kneel at the bed of the dying and pray for their immortality. the memorial to kira washington is a beautiful one, one that evangeline has tended to every day since being allowed by the father, the son, and the fuming daughter. gentle hands, like shaking hands with an old friend, are what gently touch the memorial, removing the dust and the grime like one would brush out another's hair. perhaps, in another life, kira washington and evangeline st. claire are the best of friends.

she can also find him staring at her long before she turns around.  it is a ritual, of sorts; one of the washingtons inevitably comes to look at evangeline tending to the matriarch's grave, as if inspecting that she was giving her respect and care. without fail, every time, she passes their test, and they leave before she does.  this time, however, wash speaks to her, a confessional at the seat of a saint, and she turns over her shoulder, face to face with her spectre. " i know. " she tells him, eyes soft. " i can find the pieces of you that are long since dead. but the god of the old world says that all souls are immortal in the name of the son.  perhaps, in some way, that is comfort.  knowing that when we die, too, we will be reunited with those we have lost.  if it is not comfort, then . . . i know that she is nursing those parts of you that died alongside with her.  they are in good company.  "

[traightor]

@warhaeds :  ❛   i also buried a part of myself alongside them.  ❜    /   quotes that broke me. 

𝔰𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔱 𝔢𝔳𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔢.    her eyes close, taking in his words, feeling the heat of his skin on her own. she was desperate to hold his hand, to try to comfort him with her palms when words did not work. they were the first words he had spoke in the last hour, and it was a stake through the heart when he finally spoke. pieces of brandon washington burned in the fire when the bombs dropped. perhaps thats why his faction was named after the same things that broke him : if they could break him, they could break anything.

" the holy word says that there is no such thing as an end for the spirit in the name of christ jesus. " she tells him, and though the old word of a god no longer worshipped after an armageddon he couldn't predict may comfort her, she knows it may not comfort him. she must try, anyways. her hands tighten around his own, her own strength miniscule in comparison. he could break out of this touch whenever he wanted, and yet he did not. " if pieces of you died alongside them, they must be with them now, i hope. i think. when the earth inevitably takes you, those pieces will lead you to them. " her hand is so gentle, stroking his hair, his cheek (feeling the sandpaper of his beard on her palm). " do not mourn those pieces. they will guide you back to those that make up your home. "