Memories are powerful things, wouldn’t you agree?
He never was a fan of meeting guests when they were dying. I mean, who would be? A psychopath, that’s who. He’s met a few of those in his time here. Regardless, it never was a pleasant experience. Course, that was nothing compared to the suffering they were at the moment experiencing. Some of those meetings were more heartbreaking than others. He does it to himself, really. He just can’t bring himself to walk away and leave them on their own.
So when he comes across another victim of The Collector he represses a sigh and goes to sit next to them. They’re trembling, curled in a ball and clutching at their face. Not an inch of skin can be seen on their blood soaked arms, and from the looks of it they’ve been here a while with how much of the sickeningly scarlet liquid has pooled beneath them. They visibly flinch when they hear his footsteps, so he stops and opts for using his voice instead. He’s practiced in comforting those in their last moments, so he lowers his voice and steadies his tone into a warm anchor they can cling to before succumbing to the inevitable.
“Hey, man. Do you mind if I sit with you?”
Their response tells him this conversation will haunt him for a long, long time. The man strangely sounds like a kid who knows they’re about to be scolded. Â
“David? Is- is that you? How’d you… how did you get here?”
Looks like he’s gotta pull out his acting skills for this one. He can only hope he doesn’t mess this up and make them feel worse.
“Yeah, it’s me. You mind if I take a seat or you gonna make me stand here?”
He puts a teasing attitude into his question, and thanks God it seems to make the man smile.
“Yeah. Yeah you can sit. I’m a bit-“
The man sucks in a sharp breath and holds it, clearly trying to hide his discomfort. It’s not the most extreme response to what should be agonizing pain, so he knows there’s not much time before they come to collect.Â
“I’m a bit indisposed at the moment.”
As he steps closer and slides his back against the wall he’s careful to remain crouched. He’d rather not get blood on his pants if he can help it.Â
“I can see that. Oh- sorry. Pun was not intentional.”
Shoot. That was risky. He can’t just say the first thing that comes into his mind. Think before you open your big mouth.
The man to his relief snorts and while he again, winces from pain, the man’s trembling has stopped near completely.
“You haven’t changed. Still an ass, even when we were kids. Drove mom crazy.”
The man freezes as if caught doing something wrong, and with the way his body shakes he knows if the man could, he’d be crying. The man’s voice is about above a whisper and is upsettingly strained.
“I thought you’d be mad still. It’s- it’s my fault she’s gone.”
The man seems like he’s struggling to voice a fact that is clearly tearing him apart. The man chokes out a wet laugh. He’s confident there isn’t any humor behind it.
“I was the one who was driving. I was the dumbass who wasn’t paying attention and she- moms the one who paid the price for it. Not me, not the screw up who couldn’t keep a job to save his life. Of course it had to be the best fucking mom any loser son could ask for. Fuck, I don’t blame you for not wanting to be my brother anymore.”
He can’t find it in his heart to interrupt him. While the man is ranting he decides he’ll do something he miserably does not want to do. He takes off his gloves and pointedly doesn’t look at the scarred mess of skin beneath. The only good thing that comes out of the fact the man is missing his eyes is the fact he can somewhat comfortably hold the man’s hand without his gloves on. During a pause in the tirade of self-hate he takes the opportunity to grab one of the man’s hands that was currently animatedly helping to illustrate how upset the man was. The man halts entirely, and he brings it down to rest on the man’s thigh. The man asks a reasonable question. One that still makes his gut swirl with a healthy mix of insecurity, guilt, and similarly to the man, self-hate.
“Why- you’re… holding my-? Why do your… why does your hand feel like that?”
He sucks in a breath and has to force himself to keep the calm facade for the man.Â
“I had a little accident. But I’m okay now.”
The man only becomes more distressed so he changes tactics.
“Hey- Hey. What’s your name?”
Even without eyes and being horribly disfigured in the facial department, he can feel the confusion dripping off the man in waves.
“Why? You know my name.”
The man is clearly hesitant but decides to go along with it.
He takes his free hand and, writing with the only thing he can while not moving or letting go of John’s hand, uses his finger to dip into John’s blood and writes it down on the closest spot not covered in the same red “ink”. He will not let his unreliable memory make him forget.
“And where did we live growing up?”
“Orlando Florida. In Clermont.”
John seems to calm just a bit, and he hopes it’s not just the blood loss talking. Please let this actually be comforting.Â
“And what’s your favorite color?”
John, amused, rolls his eyes and unknowingly gives him the color he’ll be using to write his name when he’s gone.
“It’s orange, dipshit. Why are you asking?”
He laughs, and squeezes John’s hand.Â
“You know what’s crazy? My brother has exactly the same name. He also grew up in Clermont, and his favorite colors orange. You aren’t a loser, John. You’re my brother. You made a mistake, and I know that now.”
John doesn’t say a word and he starts to worry that he’d already passed. He sighs, but when John squeezes his hand what he says… yeah he’s gonna need an Engi hug after this one. It’s so quietly whispered, as if telling the most important secret. If he wasn’t shoulder to shoulder with John he doubt he’d have heard anything at all.
“I missed you so much.”
He stares straight ahead. He will not look at John but by God does the feeling of him leaning on his side burn. John’s hand is limp, now. He stays there even when the train car opens. He stays there even as The Conductor and The Fireman step inside the car. The Conductor does not look surprised, but The Fireman’s terrible posture straightens a fraction and the room progressively starts to feel a little hotter. He hates the look The Conductor is giving him. He hates it more than anything, and doesn’t move when The Fireman steps forward to collect. The Conductor gives The Fireman a dirty look as if to remind him of his long standing rule. The Fireman doesn’t pay him a second glance. Finally, as The Fireman crouches down he slips his bare hand out of John’s, and doesn’t miss the way The Fireman’s gaze locks onto it. He doesn’t like it. But he can’t put his gloves on while they’re soaked in blood so he bares it. Besides, it’s not like The Fireman has much room to judge. As he pulls his hand away it’s the first time he’s noticed he’s shaking. The Fireman inevitably notices as well, and his one eye flashes up to his unmoving mask.Â
The Fireman hesitates, but ultimately places a hand on his knee. He didn’t think it’d be as comforting as it is, but it helps to warm the ice in his veins that’d been growing colder and colder ever since he first saw John. Out of the corner of his eye The Conductor is visibly agitated, but decides to stay silent despite his annoyance. More than likely not wanting to start a fight, what with… how he is at the moment. The Fireman catches the writing of John’s name on the floor and he swears there’s a level of understanding there. Something he’d never thought possible, a mournful sentiment in his generally apathy-ridden demeanor.Â
“I’ll take care of him.”
He has to keep himself from jumping when he hears The Fireman’s deep voice. He thinks of cold late nights by the fireplace, huddled next to a person he can’t place. He thinks of campfires in the woods out back, escaping… someone. Stargazing and hushed words as if hiding away from a monster. Again, to his side is the person he cannot place. It’s only there for the briefest of moments. He thinks of nostalgia, and guilt, and a building he both loathes and loves set mournfully ablaze by his own hand. Just like that, it’s gone. The Fireman has moved on to pick up John, but does not place him in the sack he carries. Instead he lays it down, making sure it’s a clean spot on the floor. He watches with rapt attention as The Fireman carefully takes a limp John and places him on top of it. Slowly, The Fireman picks him up. It’s almost… ritualistic, in a way. He has never been more thankful. The Fireman stands with John in his arms and even The Conductor can not find it in himself to protest. The Fireman turns to leave as if it was nothing, and The Conductor gives him a glance before turning to follow.
He shakily uses the wall to haul himself up and before they can exit the car he decides to break the rules, even if their enforcer was right there to bare witness to it.
Both freeze in place, and The Conductor gives him an unexpectedly worried look with a hint of… something hidden beneath. The Fireman’s reaction is more of surprise and still, the underlying emotion is something he can’t quite place.
The Conductor’s hands hang limply, clenched into fists but he finds no anger there. Only a melancholic sense of… guilt? Over what, he’s not sure. The Fireman’s fiery core burns surprisingly bright, but just for a moment as it hurriedly dims. The Fireman only nods, and as the pair exit the car he thinks that the hulking furnace may have been standing taller. Even if just a bit.
Maybe he should break the rules a little more often. Later, though. Right now he needs to find his spidery friend. Hopefully The Express won’t need him for at least a couple hours.
Meeting guests when they were dying and comforting them as they passed was not in the job description. It was not something he enjoyed. Regardless, he will not hesitate to do it every time. Even if it will haunt him for as long as he can remember it.
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