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five-rivers · 2 years

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Ancestral 8

There were two more visitors after that. The Speaker for the Assembly, a woman whose popularity had been derived from her position as poet laureate many years before, and Father Gylefa, who wasn’t quite the head of the rather informal Church of Avlynys. Like Matthew, they wanted to go over coordination and what, exactly, would be said.

“Are you sure you want to do this before Alicia gets here?” asked Father Gylefa, tugging at his cross-and-eye necklace in a familiar nervous gesture.

Matthew gave him a long-suffering look.

Father Gylefa raised his hands. “It would be a reasonable excuse. I stand by what I said about you needing time to process.”

“The country can’t afford it,” said the Speaker. “We only stayed out of the economic crisis the Faroes are having by the skin of our teeth and the efforts of the School of Heroes.” She curled her lip. “And I just heard from the First Shadow that we have some billionaire tech mogul trying to bully his way through the flight lockdown.”

Danny felt his stomach drop. Vlad. Couldn’t he mind his own business for five minutes? The list of things that Danny didn’t want was very, very long at this point, but he had the impression that Vlad coming to Avlynys would be explosive one way or another.

(Especially given that harassing a princess was technically still on the books as a capital offense.)

The Speaker looked apologetic, but she continued. “We need a king. Or a queen. And a Secretary, which we can’t elect without a monarch. I’m a legislator and advisor, I’m not supposed to be directly receiving spy reports.”

“I know,” said Matthew. “God and all those gone before help me, but I know.”

Father Gylefa patted his shoulder, then looked past him at Danny and Jazz. “Ah,” he said, “it has been a while, Danny, Jazz. You’ve grown.” His expression grew a touch colder. “Madeline.” Then, frostier still. “Mr. Fenton.”

The Church of Avlynys came into being when, upon being given the cover of Henry VIII’s founding of the Church of England, the entire archipelago leapt gleefully into open heresy. As such, in addition to being only loosely organized, it was also distinctly heterodox… and had been a staunch opponent of witch trials.

That wasn’t to say it didn’t have problems and had never, ever, participated in any form of religious oppression (it had, sadly). But it could pull out a very plausible moral high ground now and again.

No one in the family had really approved of Maddie marrying Jack, a ghost hunter. The extensive background check turning up witch hunters in the family tree hadn’t helped.

Most of the family had… lost some of their hostility towards Jack over time. Father Gylefa hadn’t.

And, unlike the situation with Vlad, Jack was very aware of it.

“Mr. Gylefa,” replied Jack with the exact same intonation.

“Haha, yeah,” said Danny. “That’s us, just shooting up. Maybe we’ll beat the family height record, yeah?”

One of their medieval ancestors was supposed to have been seven feet tall, so… that was unlikely. But Danny wasn’t sure what else to say.

The Speaker sighed. “I’ll go get things started. It won’t be long before we call for you, your highnesses, lords and ladies, Mr. Fenton.”

Jack watched her go with an expression of resigned offense. From there, Father Gylefa made small talk with the rest of the family while Matthew fretted, Maddie watched silently, and Jack attempted to make friendly overtures.

It was so painful that Danny was almost glad when they were called out into the Assembly Hall, leaving Sophia, Irene and Jack to watch from the doorway.

The huge room resembled an amphitheater in some ways. There were seats in curved tiers around the sides of the room, and in the center was a circular raised dais with a small moat-like channel cut between it and the first rank of seats. The dias had a mosaic map of Avlynys set into it, the nine islands picked out in surprising detail.

The Assembly itself didn’t take up all of the seats. In less grim circumstances, the upper ranks would be filled with a wide variety of observers, from schoolchildren, to lobbyists, to would-be politicians, to ordinary citizens there on a whim. Right now, the only observers were local journalists and a singular camera crew.

(Danny hoped that no one he knew back in Amity watched the governmental news channels of tiny nordic countries as a hobby. This was the first time he and Jazz were publicly appearing as part of the royal family, and he hadn’t really thought through what that entailed.)

Behind the seats, the walls of the hall were filled with traditional Avlynyse heraldry. The Tree and Pond, nine stars picked out among the curling branches and reflected in the blue-green waters. The Ancestors’ Eye, bright green and multiplied. The Nine Sisters, standing on the islands they anthropomorphized like stepping stones. The Hero’s Arms, rendered variously as a spear and scroll or a knife and a book.

It was an impressive room. Not as big as parliament, or congress, but still impressive.

Also very intimidating.

The family gathered around the edge of the dais, with Matthew standing tall in the middle of their line.

The Speaker walked out along the walkway to the center of the dais and began to speak. “Hyr, todag, sy folk sal coronyn Mathyw Alfryd sy Bisige yf sy Hys Dyryse Avlynyse, Sunn Ynyse…”

Danny mentally translated for himself: Here, today, the people shall crown Mathyw Alfryd the Diligent of the House of Dyrys of Avlynys, Son of the Isles, Blood of Kings and Heroes. Are there any of the House of Dyrys who would oppose this? One who speaks would call those of the blood to bear witness.

There was a beat of silence.

“Athlyng Yonna Loryn Dyrys Avlynyse, do thou beryn wytnes?”

Lovely thing about Avlynys was that everyone born there had a completely legal English name, and an equally legal Avlynyse name.

Joanna stepped forward, spine ruler-straight, hands clasped in front of herself. “Yn beryn wytnes ekyn sagyn no agyn.” I bear witness and say nothing in opposition.

“Athlyng Madlyn Myra Dyrys Avlynyse, do thou beryn wytnes?”

Maddie took her place next to her cousin. “Yn beryn wytnes ekyn sagyn no agyn.”

“Ledyn Yugyn Kartyr Dyrys, do thou beryn wytnes?”

Eugene took his place significantly more gingerly. “Yn beryn wytnes ekyn sagyn no agyn.”

“Ledyn Lwys Theydyr Dyrys, do thou beryn wytnes?”

Lewis nodded before answering. “Yn beryn wytnes ekyn sagyn no agyn.”

“Ledyn Irys Yvlyn Dyrys, Ledyn Georg Lyk Dyrys, do thou beryn wytnes?”

The twins moved forward together. Born at the same time, they had the same rank in traditional rituals. “Yn beryn wytnes ekyn sagyn no agyn,” they said together.

“Ledyn Leo Alfryd Dyrys, do thou beryn wytnes?”

“Yn beryn wytnes ekyn sagyn no agyn,” said Leo, his voice cracking. He looked past Lewis and the twins to where Vivian would usually stand during something like this.

“Ledyn Yazmyn Roz Dyrys, do thou beryn wytnes?”

There was some whispering from the Assembly, but Jazz stepped forward, leaving Danny alone at the edge of the dais except for Matthew, apparently unaffected. “Yn beryn wytnes ekyn sagyn no agyn.” She broke protocol by just a hair to look back at Danny.

“Ledyn Dannyl Ymaz Dyrys, do thou beryn wytnes?”

Danny, full of nerves, almost tripped over his own feet, but he managed to reach his assigned place. “Yn beryn wytnes ekyn sagyn no agyn,” he said, echoing all the others, but very aware of how American his accent was. What else was he going to say? That he should be declared king?

That was ridiculous.

The Speaker bowed to them, “So, kumyn, Athlyng Mathyw. Syon thy folk.”

Matthew walked past them, to the opposite edge of the dias.

“Athlyng Mathyw, wel thou sweryn…” Prince Mathyw, will you swear to your people to serve and defend them, in all ways written in the law, in body and spirit? To lead them in the dark and the light?”

As far as binding oaths went, Danny thought it was simple and elegant. The metaphor might be used by someone being a literal genie like, say, Desiree, but as far as humans went, it was understandable and clear.

“Yn wel sweryn so,” replied Matthew.

The Speaker nodded sharply, and called for the Cup of the Oath. The Cupbearer - yes, it was an official position, but it didn’t hold all that much responsibility… or at least, it hadn’t - hurried in from the wings, holding up the ancient gold goblet. Other aides followed in his wake, moving to distribute more modern glasses among the Assembly.

Danny hardly noticed them, however. His attention was on the furious and frightened-looking ghosts following the Cupbearer. Danny hadn’t even noticed when Vivian and Gwensyvyr had slipped away, too caught up with his own nerves, but now…

Vivian flew up into his face, teeth bared, cuts on her skin bleeding pink. Danny looked at her, looked at Gwensyvyr’s broad and exaggerated pointing at the goblet, looked at Matthew, who was even now reaching out to take it, reached a conclusion, and made a decision.

“Wait!” he said, stumbling forward, one hand raised. “Stop!”

One of the servers dropped a wineglass. Matthew turned to face him, every inch of his skin drenched in consternation. Maddie grabbed his elbow and dragged him back into line, albeit in the wrong spot.

“Don’t,” said Maddie, quietly. “You don’t want to expose yourself to the pol–”

“I’m probably just being paranoid,” said Danny, loudly, clearly, projecting his voice. He tried not to look at the ghosts, more than one of whom had taken on a distinct posture of relief. “But, cousin… Will you test it? Before you drink? Just in case.”

The Cupbearer’s mouth, already open, dropped even further. “I tested it!” he objected.

“Danny,” said Matthew, quietly, clearly trying to salvage the situation. “Dannyl, we’ve tested everything here dozens of times, after what… happened. It’s fine.”

The ghosts seemed to think otherwise.

Danny pulled away from Maddie and took a couple quick steps forward, wanting to make his case again - or be in a position to knock away the cup if Matthew suddenly grabbed it - whereupon the Cupbearer threw the contents of the goblet at Danny.

Wine dripped down his face.

Matthew inhaled deeply and pressed his hands together as if praying for patience. Danny wasn’t paying too much attention, having noticed something much more disturbing than Matthew reaching the end of his rope.

“Your Majesty,” squeaked the Cupbearer. “I’m so sor–”

“Not crowned yet,” said Matthew. “Danny–”

“I can’t feel my skin,” said Danny. Belatedly, he remembered basic lab safety - a common problem in his family, apparently - and started stripping off the clothes that had been soaked by the wine.

“Oh, god,” said Maddie, barely audible.

“What?”

“I can’t feel my skin,” said Danny. “I’m going numb. I can’t - ow, heck.” Formal clothes were hard to get off when your vision was doing funny things.

“Medics!” snapped Matthew and there was a small commotion that Danny could hear but not see. “Security, arrest this man!”

“Sir, we have to move you to a safer location.”

“I will not–”

“Danny–”

“Don’t!” Danny told Jazz. “I don’t want you to get any of this on you.”

“Danny, are you–?”

“Dad, don’t!” The words came out slurred. The wine was still on his face, on his hands, dripping and dribbling down his neck. Was it safe to use his clothing to try and wipe it off?

Danny could feel his heart and breathing start to slow. Not to the point where it was dangerous to him, but he didn’t like the implications.

“Jazz,” he said, “my kit–”

“I’ll bring it to you, as soon as I can.”

“Sir?” said someone. “My name is Emily, and I’m trained in first aid. If you could turn towards me…”

#tw: murder attempt #tw: poison #danny phantom #ectoberhaunt22 #ectoberhaunt day 21: coronation and coup #ancestral fic

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forestfairyunicorn · 3 months

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To the Phandom, or those who are least seen the show, What musical instrument would Danny be good at?

Not for a class requirement, but on his own time. A possible music therapy for him, an outlet, or something else that works as a hobby.

And of course, it's for a headcanon thing or worldbuilding I have for him as a Grim. Specifically, a church grim.

#danny phantom

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aikoiya · 7 months

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Ancient Vlad actually calls Canon Vlad a ‘Fruitloop’… Canon Danny + Dark Dan + Dani are all laughing hysterically!… How would Canon Vlad react? 🥣

Dude, thank you for the enthusiasm, but just because I don't answer within an hour doesn't mean that I missed it.

I see you.

But, I could only see this happening after extended exposure to Danny & his friends.

Otherwise, he'd likely call him something like a ghoulish old fream. (A fream being a 1950-60s expression basically refering to social outsiders, misfits, or losers. Restricted to males.)

But, otherwise? Yeah, I can see it.

Also, something very interesting that I recently learned about the Salem Witch Trials of 1692. Apparently out of the over 200 people accused of witchcraft only about 20 were executed over the course of a single month. I think that what got people to wonder about the morality of it was that all these people were killed at around the same time so it felt like a lot more people than it actually was. Though many did die in jail while awaiting trial.

Also, America didn't really burn those accused of witchcraft, as that was more of a European thing & even there, the bodies were typically only burned after the accused were either hanged or beheaded in order to prevent post-humous sorcery. I say most because there were some who were still very much alive when they were burned. Rather most in America were just hanged at the gallows, while others, were committed to swim. Which means that they were dunked into a body of water to see whether they would sink or float. Evidently, sinking to the bottom indicated innocence while floating indicated being a witch. Which is just total & complete superstitious balderdash!

Then, there's Giles Corey, who was pressed to death via large stones.

The worst of the witch trials actually happened in Europe where around 50,000 people were executed for crimes of witchcraft between the 15-18 centuries.

I just thought that was interesting. Grim & horrible, but interesting to know.

There was, of course, a different & much more benign way to do this that, evidently, no one seemed to think of at the time. And that was simply having the witch eat of the bread of the sacrament, which I'd seen somewhere will kill the witch.

This is based on 1 Corinthians 11:27-32, "Whoever, therefore, eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be guilty concerning the body and blood of the Lord." Which, in this situation, I'm taking creative liberty with & saying that, within this fantasy world, it means that by eating of the body (the bread) while dispising the body (the church or Christ Himself), God will discipline them, quite painfully in fact.

And, in fact, that could well be how Vlad manages to get the townspeople to turn on whoever killed him, whether it be the pastor or some other figure we're going with.

After all, if this were true, then why wouldn't they be going this route since the only real victims in the use of such would be those who actively hate God. Unless, the entire Salem Witch Trials hysteria was orchestrated by actual, legit, human-sacrificing, God-hating witches who wanted to get as many people killed as absolutely possible without having to lift a real finger.

Which... in & of itself would be an extremely interesting twist. Horrific, but interesting.

DP Ask AU Masterlist

#dp #danny phantom #ancient vlad au

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violetcacti · 5 years

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Danny is a dog person and I’m sure that over time he befriends more of them.

One of which is a big ol’ church grim, the other being Laika the space dog.

#in which i totally didn't cry drawing ghost dogs #okay no yeah it's a lie #i did #danny phantom #also this piece is kinda unfinished but whatever i'm lazy and tired take it #i quite appreciate the aesthetic of danny with a bunch of ghost dogs tho #danny fenton #danny phantom cujo #church grim #black dog #he's probably in a cemetery introducing the puppies to the big scary guardian #damn now i want a fic #who knows maybe for once i'll get around to writing #doubtful but maybe #thorns and prickles #don't repost

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ganymedesclock · 3 years

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Since a bunch of people seem to be finding my Danny Phantom Content, I thought I’d post more of it, including my take on Everybody’s Favorite Time Ghost. Details on their position in this AU:

Time Itself, Eternity, Memento Mori, The Heart Of The Universe, and a bunch of other titles that are too much of a pain to remember and use unless you are very very old and decided to care about memorizing them all; let’s just go with “Clockwork”, it’s easier.

Pretty damn high up the pecking order of raw power ghosts. Ghost radars struggle greatly to pick up their presence mostly because any radar that’s been operating anywhere in the vicinity of Amity Park has been filtering out “background radiation” this entire time.

On that note don’t look at their chest or unwrapped eyes. Not ‘cause it’s rude but uh, y’know what happens when you square off with the Church Grim in Year Walk?

Yeah the Observants aren’t Clockwork’s bosses they’re more like very needy and intrusive petitioners.

Clockwork Themselves is fairly chill which isn’t really ‘in spite of’ them being basically a lovecraftian Old One but more ‘because of’. There’s not a lot that can personally make them sweat.

#Danny Phantom #Clockwork #Danny #Arrhythmia AU #Ganymede Art Tag

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happysadyoyo · 2 years

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I am listening to a video and then editing my own and just while I’m listening thinking about childhood crushes.

Haku from Spirited Away

Danny Phantom (specifically ghost version) from Danny Phantom

Kovu from Lion King 2 (guess who shares his English VA with? Haku)

Zuko from Avatar the Last Airbender

my best friend Paige who talked with me about our fictional gay male characters fucking instead of sleeping at my house

our mutual friend Shirley who helped me draw a comic where the three of us were basically Naruto characters and I was a cat boy

my other best friend Megan who was a weirdo like me in church

the half-Vietnamese boy Caleb who was two years older than me and his grandmother tried to give me a yorkie puppy but my mom said no :c He later turned out to be a massive transphobe but I didn’t know that when I basically stalked him for five years

Mandy from The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy

Starfire and Cyborg from Teen Titans

This is like 12-18 and I have a lot of questions for childhood me

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carewyncromwell · 3 years

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“It's just like déjà vu, me standin' here with you, So I'll be holdin' my own breath -- Could this be the end? Is it that moment when I find the one that I'll spend forever with?”

~“Gotta Be Somebody” by Nickelback

x~x~x~x

In 1941, the vampire called Bat Varney was murdered by the dark wizard Grindelwald for aiding the resistance movement organized by Ministries across Europe. Bat left behind many friends, including Danny Gibson @catohphm and the Selwyn-Ellison family @that-ravenpuff-witch -- but the person most devastated by Bat’s death was his most constant companion, Atticus “Grim” Grimsley @cursebreakerfarrier. Never in his life had the retired professor considered that he’d be the last one standing, out of the two of them -- and in his last days on earth, just before he died peacefully in his sleep at a ripe old age, all that he wished was that he might see his first true friend again. Little did Atticus know that -- in his last moments alive -- Bat had made a similar wish...praying that maybe he and his mate Grim could meet again someday, somewhere where Bat didn’t have to regulate how much or how long they touched...maybe even with his real face...as Robert.

About a decade after Professor Grimsley’s death, the only son of a well-respected Pureblood family started his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and was Sorted into Ravenclaw house. The boy -- appropriately enough also named Atticus -- wasn’t particularly popular at school, given his hyper-focus on his academics and on satisfying the high standards of his father. Not only was Atticus expected to bring his family honor and esteem, but he also had a rival at Hogwarts who he was expected to “outdo.”

Bartholomew “Barty” Gilbert (pronounced “JO-behr”) was the only son of an up-and-coming Pureblood family who’d just emigrated from France and made a lot of money investing in robe shops in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade alike. He was also now a Gryffindor in Atticus’s year, and Atticus’s father was very firm that Atticus not let the boy surpass him in anything. Although Atticus normally obeyed his father with a certain degree of reluctance, in this case, he didn’t like the thought of losing to Barty Gilbert either. Not because the Gryffindor wasn’t pleasant -- no, in fact, he was almost too pleasant...too amiable, too inoffensive. And that made it so that even though Barty got away with doing whatever he wanted without worrying about his family’s expectations, it only served to earn him more friends and admirers. Even before that, though, when Atticus had met Barty in passing before school, he still couldn’t help but dislike the other boy. There was just something off about him -- something Atticus could hardly put into words. It was like whenever Barty opened his mouth, he sounded wrong -- whenever he smiled, it looked wrong...even his eyes weren’t as they should be. There was something almost familiar about Barty’s auburn hair, face, and height -- and yet something was wrong. And it just made Atticus upset for a reason he couldn’t really explain. It reminded him of those times, when he was a very small child, when his mother would try to comfort him after he woke up sobbing and could hardly explain why. Something about someone with red eyes squeezing his shoulders, tears streaming down his face and laughing like his heart was breaking...

So Atticus was determined to throw himself into his studies and do everything expected of him. Just because Gryffindor Golden Boy Barty Gilbert refused to do things the right way didn’t mean he shouldn’t -- and Atticus knew karma would eventually go his way in the end, if he put in the proper work. It didn’t mean that he didn’t still sometimes feel somewhat resentful every time Barty Gilbert waved to him in the hall, his two best friends at his side. One of them was the most popular girl in their year (of course), another Pureblood witch named Cecelia “Ceci” Crouch -- the other was one of Atticus’s own dormmates, a poor Muggle-born boy who in third year had become Ravenclaw’s Star Chaser named Robert Bellamy. Despite sleeping in the same dorm for five years, Atticus and Robert had really never talked -- Atticus was focused almost exclusively on his studies, of course, but even Robert seemed actively disinterested in talking to Atticus. Perhaps it was because of how much Atticus kept sticking his nose up at his best friend Barty -- perhaps it was because of how much of a stick-in-the-mud Atticus was -- or perhaps it was for a reason Robert couldn’t quite put into words, the same way Atticus couldn’t completely explain his instant dislike of Barty.

One day at the beginning of fifth year, however, Atticus and Robert were forced to engage with each other when Professor Binns inexplicably decided to actually assign a paired homework assignment. (A possible result of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore casually reminding the History of Magic professor of a similar assignment he’d assigned his OWL class back in the days when he was still alive.) Although Binns of course didn’t remember any of his students’ names, he nonetheless paired Robert with Atticus. Neither of the Ravenclaws was particularly pleased, but none of them was the type to actively argue or complain.

After class, Atticus approached Robert outside the History of Magic classroom. Robert told Barty to go on ahead to the Great Hall and that he’d catch up. Once Barty was gone, Atticus uncomfortably questioned Robert about when they could meet to work on their oral report on the Witch Hunts of the 14th century.

Robert frowned slightly, his well-toned arms crossing casually over his chest.

“Hogsmeade weekend starts tomorrow,” he said placidly. “You occupied then?”

Unlike the rest of his classmates, Robert wore his bronze-trimmed blue Quidditch robes over his disheveled uniform, instead of his usual black school robes. Atticus couldn’t help but wonder if Barty Gilbert’s buddy just liked to remind everyone that he was one of Ravenclaw’s Chasers.

Pushing this faintly condescending thought aside, Atticus shook his head. “No -- I’m available.”

“Good. Meet me at the Three Broomsticks and we can talk there.”

He turned on his heel as if to go. Atticus couldn’t help but sputter and he quickly rushed in front of the other Ravenclaw to stop him from walking away.

“What is there to talk about? We need to get started right away!”

Robert raised his eyebrows. “Tomorrow isn’t soon enough for you?”

“The project’s due on Monday,” said Atticus seriously. “We’ll need to spend a good deal of time at the library, if we want to be prepared -- ”

“No need,” said Robert with a shrug. “I already know everything we need to know.”

Atticus couldn’t keep himself from quirking a disbelieving eyebrow. “Oh really? Robert Bellamy, slacker jock who always dozes off in History of Magic, knows enough about the Witch Hunts of the 14th century to get us an O on our oral report? Somehow I doubt that.”

Amazingly Robert didn’t react with anger -- instead his black eyes turned very cool.

“The Witch Hunts really can’t be narrowed down to just the 14th century,” he said in a very level, matter-of-fact voice appropriate to a professor. “Not only did the ‘witch hysteria’ phenomenon last well into the 18th century, until the Age of Enlightenment, but there was a lot of set-up beforehand that laid the groundwork for it. Witchcraft, specifically black magic, was considered illegal even in ancient times -- the Romans considered it a capital offense. And of course one can’t ignore how early Christians demonized pagan beliefs by associating them with witchcraft, hence why images of the Devil came to embody traits associated with the nature god Pan. The Witch Hunts of the 14th century largely came about because a bunch of Muggles got their knickers in a twist about an increased interest in necromancy and herbal remedies among the poor, spurred on by the printing and circulation of older Islamic texts. The fact that many of those people who had the most use for those herbal remedies were women -- frequently mid-wives -- scared the church as well, of course, given the sexism of the time. And of course when bad things happen and there’s no explanation for it, people love to find a scapegoat. Add a text like the Malleus Malificarum that tells the terrified masses all of their problems are the fault of evil witches to the mix, and Incendio -- you’ve got yourself a bonfire.”

Atticus was completely sideswiped. He caught himself staring with his mouth open, and quickly closed it.

“That...well...”

He felt very sheepish. His ears burned -- his mother would’ve been scolding him if she were there, for jumping to conclusions like that.

“...That’s really impressive,” Atticus said self-consciously. “Forgive me, I...I was very rude, just then.”

He brushed a loose piece of his dark brown bangs out of his eyes.

“...How did you even know all that? I don’t recall Professor Binns ever saying -- ”

“I doubt he did,” said Robert. Once again he didn’t seem the least bit offended by what Atticus had said and was currently grinning cheekily. “I got my hands on the fifth year History of Magic syllabus from an older student before term started. I went to the Muggle library and borrowed a whole stack of books about the Witch Hunts so I could read them over the summer.”

Atticus blinked. “Muggle books? But -- but wouldn’t that information be incomplete?”

“In some ways, yes. But honestly, magical history isn’t much better that way -- it leaves plenty of stuff out.”

“I suppose it does -- but Professor Binns expects you to know what he teaches too. That’s why he does those lectures.”

“And puts the whole class to sleep,” said Robert with a snort of laughter.

“That’s beside the point,” said Atticus firmly. “It’s good that you studied the material so thoroughly -- very admirable, in fact -- but there is a right way to do things, and falling asleep in class when your professor’s trying to teach you will only make it harder for you to get top marks.”

Robert shrugged. “Guess I don’t see the need to regurgitate my professor’s lessons like a parrot. And how do you know I don’t already get top marks? I don’t remember you ever asking to see my grades.”

Atticus faltered. “Well -- it’s just -- I never see you study.”

“Probably because you never leave the library,” said Robert with a rather mischievous smile.

The words were an unpleasant barb in the corner of Atticus’s chest, and his eyes narrowed to hide the slight hurt he felt. Noticing the shift in the other boy’s expression, Robert immediately put down all trace of humor.

“Only joking,” he said defensively. “Crimey...you really are too grim for your own good...”

As soon as the sentence had left Robert’s mouth, there was a strange, silent ping that seemed to ripple through both young men’s ears. The word “grim” had hit Atticus in the heart stronger than anything else Robert had said. The young Pureblood had stiffened sharply, and his expression tensed further when he realized that Robert too seemed to have suddenly gone oddly pale.

Did...did the word affect him too? Did he also find it so strangely, frustratingly, achingly familiar? Why?

The two stared at each other, both looking incredibly disconcerted. Then Robert, stuffing a hand into his pocket, quickly strolled past Atticus.

“...I’d better go catch up with Barty,” he muttered. His voice sounded oddly calm to Atticus’s ears -- almost evasively so. “Is tomorrow at noon okay?”

Atticus glanced over his shoulder to look at Robert’s retreating back.

“...Yes,” he said quietly.

Robert didn’t turn back around.

“Three Broomsticks?”

“All right.”

“Good. ...Bring some books from the library, if you want. I’m sure Madame Pince will have some suggestions I haven’t read yet. Just don’t tell her we’ll be at the Three Broomsticks -- poor thing would probably throw a fit if we spilled butterbeer on her books...”

With that, the Ravenclaw Chaser departed down the hall without looking at Atticus again.

Atticus didn’t move from his spot in the hall for a while afterward, unable to completely shake the heavy, invisible weight that had settled down on top of his heart.

He’dd only ever felt such a strange, irrational kind of déjà vu around Barty Gilbert before, but this kind...this kind was different, somehow. The feeling that accompanied Barty Gilbert made Atticus feel irritated for no reason at all. This one accompanying Robert Bellamy...it was cold, and yet also so soft at the same time -- like the feeling one has when they hear a beautiful, sad song...or when they wake up sobbing from a dream where someone is squeezing their shoulders, while tears stream down their brokenly laughing face...

#golden era #hphl #atticus grimsley #bartholomew varney #my art #my writing #au #reincarnation!au #OH MY GOD #REINCARNATION TIME BABY #let's give grim and bat a real happy ending shall we?!#I mean sure bat had a lot of happiness in his life before he finally died but he only lived a half-life as a vampire #and this way bat can be there for grim when he's younger so grim can live the life at hogwarts he deserved #without his father's influence looming like a shadow over him the entire time #also yay bat can touch! and actually grow up! and actually be a professor!#I see bat and crew being in cedric's year #so they'll be seventh years when cedric dies and just be starting careers when the wizarding war starts #of course we all know bat would join the order of the phoenix because...duh #but yeah so this means bat flies alongside cho chang!! :D #robert hasn't gotten the nickname 'bat' yet but he will #and of course atticus isn't 'grim' yet -- even in his original canon he only ever was okay with bat calling him that </3 #robert's discomfort around atticus really comes back to him seeming famiilar and yet 'off' too #in this case because grim is supposed to be happy!! he's supposed to smile!! he's supposed to dance and have fun!!#and yet he's this huge stick in the mud that has a beef with robert's BFF -- what's up with that?!#he really doesn't *dislike* atticus at this point but he is uncomfortable and unsure and when bat is uncomfortable he tends to disappear #in all universes bat does not like being uncomfortable or talking about things he doesn't want to talk about XD;;#also yeah bat is smart AF but is the type to only express it when his intellect is useful #he doesn't show off his intelligence by answering every question in class or sharing his grades or going to the library constantly #instead he most often expresses it whenever he's tutoring someone in something or when the knowledge solves a problem #so it's no wonder atticus had no clue that robert's not just a dumb jock XDDD

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coochiequeens · 3 years

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Almost a year after being initially chargedwith the alleged rape of three women, That ’70s Show actor Danny Masterson has been finally ordered to stand trial. According to Variety, Judge Charlaine F. Olmedo ruled Friday that prosecutors had provided enough evidence at this week’s preliminary hearing for the case to move forward. All three of The Ranch star’s accusers testified beginning on Tuesday, providing grim details of his alleged crimes. According to one woman, when she attempted to resist during an April 2003 assault at Masterson’s Hollywood home, the actor allegedly threatened her with a gun pulled from his nightstand.

Another woman described being allegedly raped by Masterson in late 2003, while the third said the actor had raped her in November 2001 during their six-year-long relationship. Masterson has denied the claims against him and plead not guilty to the charges, which were the result of a yearslong investigation by the Los Angeles Police Department. Once the claims of sexual assault and abuse became public knowledge, Masterson was removed from Netflix’s The Ranch in 2017.

Meanwhile, the actor also faces a civil lawsuit, which alleges Masterson and the Church of Scientology launched a campaign of harassment against his accusers as a means to intimidate or punish them for going to police, including one incident in which one accuser’s dog was allegedly poisoned. In December, a judge ruled that four of his accusers would need to enter “religious arbitration” with the Church of Scientology, as they had previously signed an agreement to do so as members of the religion. However, at least one accuser is not a member of Scientology and signed no such agreement. The ruling only affects civil proceedings against the actor.

Masterson is due back in court to be arraigned next month on June 7. If found guilty, he could face up to 45 years in prison.

The church of Scientology has a history of covering for sexual abusers and throwing women under the bus.

#Church of scientology #Danny masterson

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zeestarfishalien · 1 year

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Church Grim!Danny and/or Danny The Black Dog

Picture this!

Danny gets buried (alive) in a coffin in a cemetery in Gotham by the Fentons. There’s enough ectoplasm to sustain him but he can’t get free of the coffin. Eventually he builds enough power to manifest a shadow of a spectral form as The Black Dog, a Church Grim. The shadowy omen of death tasked to guard the graves and souls of those resting there.

But wait! There’s more!

During this time someone claws their way from their grave, one Jason Todd a body without a complete soul. Danny tries to follow Jason, to protect, to guard, but he can’t leave the cemetery.

Fast forward to Jason’s return to Gotham. For as unsettling as being near his grave can be, Jason always feels safe in the cemetery. That feeling never staying with him past the gates and sometimes… Sometimes he sees a shadowy figure of a dog with eyes brighter green than the Lazarus pits.

The dog seems to be trying to lead him somewhere that isn’t Jason’s grave. It takes so long, too long for Jason to follow the Grim to an unmarked grave. And longer still for Jason to get up the nerve to dig up the grave and find the comatose boy within.

Danny doesn’t know how to go back to his body, he’s been apart so long. He’s been The Black Dog for so long.

Chapters 1-3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Now with AO3 Fic

#danny phantom #dp x dc #dc x dp #danny fenton #jason todd #batman #red hood #the black dog #church grim

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heartofsnark · 4 years

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This Is Love (Chapter Six):Burnt Offering

Notes: So, given that the last chapter was kind of short, at least by my standards. I decided to go ahead and post the next chapter this month. We're starting to near the point where what I post and where I'm at in writing are meeting up, I have chapter 7 done and am currently about halfway through writing 8, so don't be shocked if we end up with a slowdown in chapters like what's had to happen with my other fic series. It just happens, such is life.

Word Count: 9243

Chapter Warnings: Blood, Domestic Violence, Alcoholism, POV Switches, Talks of the Testicle Festival,

For chapter one and the warnings about this fics overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

The cruiser door shuts with a heavy thud, followed by Rook’s boots hitting the asphalt. Staci stifles a laugh, the newest addition to the Sheriff’s Department has a pea sized bladder and a penchant for guzzling energy drinks like an idiot. He’s had to pull into the Golden Valley Gas Station for her to run off to the bathroom, again.

His joints pop and crack as he gets out of the car, taking the chance to stretch his legs. The sun hangs high and bright in the great blue sky, warming his skin as rolls his shoulders to get out the kinks. It’s nearly noon and if he has to be here, he might as well find something to eat, the door of the gas station chiming as he walks in. He looks over the hot food options, garbage mostly, but tasty garbage. Hamburgers, pizza, hot dogs-

“You getting lunch?”

Staci jumps at the sudden question, a voice over his shoulder that he wasn’t ready for catches him off guard. A soft laugh as he turns to look at Rook who’s just scared him, sometimes she’s like a bull in a china shop and other times she’s silent as the grave. He can’t keep up and ends up glaring at the smirking woman. She finds way too much enjoyment in his misery, she’s the probie, he’s supposed to be giving her shit not the other way around.

“Someone needs to put a fuckin’ bell on you, I swear.”

“I thought you could ‘hear me coming a mile away’,” she says trying to imitate his voice when he mocked her earlier.

“That was then, this is now, and right now, you’re a sneaky bitch.”

He can’t resist the chance to wipe that dumb little smirk off her face and grabs her cheek between his fingers, stretching the soft tan skin. A small sharp pain in his wrist when she smacks him away, but it’s more than worth it to see her looking a little less cocky.

“Bite me.” She says and knocks against his side as she grabs a hamburger, nearly throwing him off balance.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Ew.” Rook grimaces at his little attempt at flirting, like an asshole. Then again, with her, she may not realize he was trying to flirt.

He grabs himself one and follows after her to the drinks, he watches her line of vision immediately go to the large sized slushie cups. They’re nearly the size of the short deputy’s head.

“No,” he tells her, voice low with warning, he already has to worry about pulling over for her constantly.

“What?”

“You drink that and you’re gonna be needing twelve more bathroom trips before our shift ends.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You nearly pissed yourself, five minutes ago.”

“I’ll be fine.” Rook rolls her eyes as she fills up the giant cup with blue slush. No matter what he says, he swears she’d break her neck just to do the opposite.

They buy their lunches, if it can even be called that, and leave the gas station. The weather’s too nice to eat in the cruiser, a soft breeze and a clear sky to eat under instead. Staci instead sits on the trunk of the car, balancing his drink on his thigh as he eats. Rook follows his lead, for once since she’s been here, and sits down on the car as well. She pulls one of her legs up onto the car and under her, keeping her drink in hand.

It’s quiet as they eat, but unlike the awkward still of when they first started patrolling together, this silence is surprisingly pleasant. Staci has never liked quiet, making those first patrols painful to sit through, but their time spent in silence has grown more bearable with every shift.

Rook is weird, but not bad; he’s decided. She’s quiet and serious, especially so at the start. But, she never misses a chance to talk back or give him hell, which might be his own fault. She’s dedicated to the job and never seems to shy away from what it entails, only ever seeming bothered by the work when she was stuck pushing papers. Despite her constant scowling and resting bitch face, Rook is eager to help people.

He doesn’t know much about her, which is only natural with her short time with the department and her lackluster communicative skills. She likes her job, Hudson, animals, and giving him hell. She hates crowds, churches, and talking. That’s about all he’s got. And dress codes he guesses? Though since the Drubman incident she’s stuck with modest tanks and tees under her uniform, other than buttoning it up, it’s the same damn thing. Hell, even Hudson and him don’t button it up all the way.

When she was first hired, the week separating her hire and her actual first day, he asked Whitehorse what he was thinking when he hired someone so young. The sheriff just laughed, saying she had a good heart. He supposes her jumping to help Mary May the day of her interview was proof of that.

There are a lot of reasons why people become cops, not all of them necessarily good or right. Staci himself is exhibit A of that. He’s always been honest with himself and others that he became a cop to get laid, it was nothing short of a whim. Something women are attracted to and didn’t require too much education, so he could avoid debt. No ideas of helping people or delusions of keeping the peace; he chose his career based entirely on the prospect of getting his dick wet.

Hudson is better than him in that regard, well, in many regards but that’s beside the point. But, her choice mostly stems from her family. Almost everyone in her family has had a career in either the military or law enforcement. Her mom is a veteran and her dad a veteran turned police officer, retiring early due to injury. One of her brothers works as an officer in Billings and the other currently in basic training. It only seemed natural she’d follow one of those paths, becoming a cop because it’s what they do in her family. A fact she’s always taken pride in.

Danny, not to speak ill of the dead, was probably a hall monitor in high school. He was a stickler for details and rules, he enjoyed being the one enforcing order. But Staci isn’t confident that Danny enjoyed it because he believed in what was best for the public so much as he liked rules for the sake of rules and being the one to crack the whip. It’s strange to say after so many years of butting heads, but Staci misses that asshole. It hit Joey hardest, Danny being her partner, but it hit him too. Danny was with the station since before him or Joey were hired on, for him to just be gone one day… Hope County is a sleepy little place, it can be easy to forget how dangerous this kind of job can be when speeding and hunting violations are the biggest crimes. Danny was a grim reminder and hopefully, the last one Staci will ever get.

“That’s gonna fall,” Rook’s voice cuts through the quiet, her finger pointed at the drink balanced on Staci’s thigh.

“It’s fine,” he dismisses her out of hand, and she rolls her eyes, sunlight making the brown look nearly gold.

She’s cute, it’s something he’s had to admit, as much as he’d rather not. While he’s always been a bit of a womanizer, it still feels weird acknowledging he’s attracted to his newly acquired pain in the ass. But…Rook is real easy on the eyes. Even with her constant sourpuss of a face, she's cute. Though the rare times he’s seen her smile… It’s a good look on her. Hell, it's a good enough look that he asked her out on an impromptu date to the F.A.N.G Center the moment he saw it. Though that ended up being botched; the Junior Deputy inviting Joey along and then abandoning them partway through the day.

He’s gotten to spend hardly any time with her outside of work, between that and her never tagging along to The Spread Eagle, a part of him has to wonder if she just doesn’t want to deal with him when she doesn’t have to. God knows, it’s not Hudson, he’s pretty sure Rook would break her neck to spend more time with Joey.

Staci’s mind is drawn back to Rook’s dismissal of his mild flirting, she seemed uncomfortable with Adelaide’s more…forward tendencies too. But there’s no denying she has a huge annoying crush on Joey. Her face going redder than a lobster anytime the two are near each other. He’s asking her on dates without even meaning to and he’s not even sure what way she swings.

“So, what’s your deal?” He decides to just ask, it might be a long shot, but no harm in seeing if he has a chance. Right?

“My deal with what?” She raises an eyebrow and takes another slurp of her drink.

“Well, I know you’re into women; so are you gay?” Rook chokes on her slushie, blue dribbling down her chin as he continues, “Bi? Pan?”

“What the fuck, dude?!” She yells, scrubbing her slushie covered hand against her jeans, her blue stained tongue catching his eye as she freaks out.

“It’s just a question.”

“A real fuckin’ personal one.” Her face is a vivid red, making her blue chin and tongue stand out even brighter.

“What? You worried ‘cause, ya know, Montana?”

“No, I’m not worried because of that.”

“Good, because I promise you most people here don’t give a fuck.”

“No, it’s not, I just don’t like talking…”

“You can honestly stop that sentence right there.”

“Pff,” she lets out a soft laugh and the corner of her mouth curves up as she says in a gentler voice, “I don’t like talking.”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” He gives her the out and she groans.

“Look, dude, not that it’s any of your business but I barely know what the fuck’s going on in my own head. If I can’t figure that shit out, how the hell am I supposed to explain it?”

“I know you like Hudson.”

“Yeah, I do… I can’t say I’m not attracted to men? I don’t think, I’ve thought men are attractive. I just, women catch my eye more,” she shrugs, face still red, “though I don’t know if that’s because of me or ‘cause of the….selection here.”

“What do you mean?”

She glares at him, dark eyebrows furrowed as if she’s trying to figure out if he’s serious while she slurps on her slushie. He can nearly see the gears in her head desperately trying to turn.

“Dude, seriously?” She asks raises an eyebrow when he doesn’t budge.

“Seriously, you make it sound like the men here are drooling apes.”

“Women in Hope County.”

Rook points out a woman stepping out of her car, long tanned legs and daisy duke shorts.

“Men in Hope County.”

She gestures towards a man at the gas pumps, bent over with his jeans half falling off his ass with plumber crack on display for the world.

It’s his turn to choke, pop catching in his windpipe as her sputters and gags on his laugh, leg jerking and sending his entire drink falling into his lap.

“Jesus fuck,” he manages to cough out as cola soaks his crotch.

“Told you it was gonna fall.”

“At least I don’t look like I blew a Smurf.”

“Fuck off.” She roughly shoves him as they both laugh.

“So, all us Hope County men are just too ugly for you?” He says with mock hurt in his voice as he stands from the trunk, walking around the cruiser.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“No, no, I get it, I mean, how could anyone stand to even look at me.”

“What do you want from me?” She’s glaring at him now from over the cruiser, each at their respective doors as they talk.

“Nah, it’s my cross to bear, I have to learn how to deal with being hideous.”

“I mean, we can always get you a paper bag.” Her face breaks into a smile and she starts laughing halfway through her own joke, blue tongue pressing against her canines.

“Wow, fuckin’ wow, just double down.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

“Unbelievable.”

“I’m sorry,” she rolls her eyes, face still flushed from laughing, “for what it’s worth, you’re one of the more attractive guys in Hope County.”

“Thank you,” Staci can’t help but genuinely smile, between the compliment and her expression, something about the moment settles warm in his chest.

“Which is kinda like being a tall dwarf.”

“Fuck you,” his outburst makes her laugh and he can’t help but laugh right along with her, “you can’t let me have anything can you?”

“Nope.”

They’re still smiling, stomachs and cheeks aching as they climb into the cruiser. He turns the key and starts up the engine, pulling them out of the parking lot. The soft tapping of Rook’s finger against the door is the only sound as they drive through the valley. She’s always moving, he’s not sure he’s ever seen her completely still.

The cola on his jeans has barely started to dry by the time the radio starts to crackle, dispatch putting out a call.

“Units please respond, we have a domestic disturbance at the Ramsey Residence, neighbor reported yelling coming from the home and threats of violence.”

The Ramsey place is about fifteen or twenty minutes out from where Benjamin and Julie live. They’re familiar with the Sheriff’s department. He hates to sound so jaded and cynical, but they’ve done this song and dance so many times. Benjamin has been an abusive drunk since as long as Staci’s lived in Hope County. No matter how many times they cuff and drag him away; Julie refuses to press charges, bails him out, and welcomes him back with open arms. It’s an endless cycle and Hope County doesn’t have the resources to break it. With that in mind, he grabs the receiver.

“Deputy Pratt and Hale responding, over.”

He flips on the sirens, lights flashing and the speaker squealing as they rush towards the Ramsey house. Tires spitting up gravel as he drives along the backroads, following them to the old farmhouse. It was once a beautiful house, he’s sure, but it’s started to fall apart over the years. The white paint peeling and the wood of the porch starting to rot away.

There’s a tension in the air as the deputies get out of the cruiser, grass crushing underfoot as they make their way to the home. Despite being Staci’s subordinate as far as standing in the department goes, Rook is in front of him and taking the lead. Not because he wants her too; she just does that.

The porch lets out a loud creak when the junior deputy takes a step, straining under her weight. That doesn’t bode well for him, while not a particularly heavy guy, he’s over a foot taller than Rook and fit. She may have muscle mass, but he’s sure he still weighs more at the end of the day.

“You might wanna be careful,” she warns him, standing next to the door, clearly having gone through the same thought process as him.

“Yeah, this porch has seen better days.”

It strains and creaks, echoing a louder under him as he takes the steps up. Then his foot goes through the porch. He curses as he starts to fall through, broken rotted wood splintering into his jeans and boot. A hand wraps around his wrist, Rook steadying him as gets his bearings. He grips the railing as he his rips his foot back out of the wood; breaking and ripping apart boards with the force of it. The smell of mildew, rotted lumber, and muck getting kicked up from it.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He has to shift back onto the steps that were able to hold him, he could step over or around the broken gap, but the chances of it just breaking through again are high. Rook lets go of his wrist once he’s on stable footing and turns back to the door. She knocks on the door three times, before calling out.

“Hope County Sheriff’s department, we got a call, just here to make sure everything’s okay.”

There’s no response, of course they’re in no rush to open the door for police. A beat of silence and then something breaks from inside the home, like glass crashing to the ground.

“You ever deal with them before?” Rook asks as she tries to open the door, but it’s locked.

“Plenty, he always has to be taken kicking and screaming. ”

“Is he dangerous?” She’s slid a pick into the door lock, twisting and turning it. Why the hell does she know how to pick locks?

“Only to his wife, every time I’ve dealt with him, he’s no worse than a drunk toddler.”

“Hmm,” she nods in understanding, “go around back and see if there’s a back door or something, we can’t take anyone out this way. I’ll head in.”

“Since when do you give the orders, probie?”

“Pratt,” she says his name like a warning, just as the door clicks open. She’s right and he Staci knows that, but that doesn’t mean he has to like being bossed around by the probie he’s supposed to be teaching the ropes.

He waves her off and goes walking around the house, all this trouble and splinters in his shin over some damn drunk who should have been locked away years ago. There’s a set of concrete stairs up to the backdoor, not attached, but sturdier than forty-year-old rotted wood. He shakes the backdoor and finds it’s locked, because of course it is.

Staci slams his shoulder against the door as he hard as he can, putting all of his weight into it. The lock and frame give out from the force, a boom and splintering sound ringing out.

“Fuck!”

It’s Rook’s voice, no mistaking it, a groan of pain punctuating the curse. Staci’s blood runs cold and he runs into the house; feet hitting the floor in heavy thuds as he runs to where he heard the sound. Nearly tripping over himself as he enters the living room.

Adrenaline coursing through him, Staci recognizes two figures instantly as he enters. Ben Ramsey standing over a curled up figure dressed in the familiar green of their uniform, blood is on the carpet, soaking it through.

Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! What’d he do? What did that son of bitch do to her?

From his angle, Ben’s back to him, Pratt can’t make out anything other than her fallen body. He can’t tell if she’s breathing, if she’s moving, where the blood is coming from, if she’s even alive.

Words stick in his throat and his mind only spins curses, his hand pauses, body frozen. Only a moment in reality, but in eternity to Staci; just enough time for the old drunk to pull his leg back and slam a boot into the young deputy on the ground. A sickening crack and curse from the young woman.

And for the first in his career, Staci pulls his gun out. It may be too quick of a move and maybe in the hours after he’ll think of how he should have gone for the baton or taser, but his hand is on his gun. Pointed at another human being. There’s a shake to his hands.

“Ben Ramsey, you’re under, under arrest! Put your hands up!” His words stall for a moment and he curses himself for the way fear seeps into his voice at the worst times.

“Fuck you-“

His words are cut off by a yell, Ben’s body convulsing for a second before he hits the ground with a heavy thud. Rook taser in hand moving as it happens, quickly cuffing him, and Staci can breathe again. He’s not going back to the station alone. The side of her head is stained with blood, hair matted in it, her left eye shut and that half of her face red. Her nose and lip are busted open, blood streaking down her chin. She’s hurt, but she’s alive. His head is swimming, drops his grip on his weapon, his shoulder aching and making him realize just how tense he was. He’s not even certain his finger was on the trigger, he realizes as he holsters the thankfully unused gun. Her lips move over and over again, but the words don’t cut through the fog of his brain until another moment passes.

“Pratt, radio backup, now!” Her hands are on the man’s cuffed wrists, keeping him in place on the ground, subdued for the moment as the man’s thankfully still dazed from the shock.

He’s hesitated, his delay to grab his radio no doubt wasting precious seconds. Why does he always fucking hesitate? He’s tripping over his words as he talks, because of course he is.

“Officer Pratt, we need backup and, and emergency services to the Ramsey house, immediately. Officer injured, suspect is belligra-belligerent and dangerous.”

“Suspect’s wife is injured as well.”

There’s more than three people in the room, Julie Ramsey curled up in a ball beside the couch, sobbing desperately at the entire scene. He didn’t even notice, fuck, he fucking hell. He gives the exact address and gets confirmation that someone is coming. Staci crouches down, closer to Rook’s level where she’s kneeling next to the suspect, he’s able to get a better look at Rook’s injury. He can smell beer, both from the suspect and from her head, shards of brown glass clinging to the blood-soaked skin. He bashed a beer bottle over her head, then kicked her in the face while she was down.

He needs to get something to hold against her head, to help stop the bleeding. Staci’s starts to move to get his overshirt off, thinking it’d be better than nothing, but then sirens screech at them. Police officers for the station and EMTS coming through the house. It’s going to be okay.

No thanks to him. He did nothing. He wants to pull his hair out, scream at himself, why the hell is he this fucking pathetic?

Ben Ramsey is arrested and charged, taken to one of the officer’s police car. Meanwhile Julie and Rook are assessed before being taken to the back of ambulance. Staci follows them, moving on instinct to follow and make sure Rook is okay.

He doesn’t speak the entire way, just grateful to be allowed in the ambulance, he listens as they access her. Lacerations, contusions, possible skull fracture; the words swim around his head as they look her over in the ambulance. He watches as the EMT forces Rook’s left eye open, seeing why it’s been shut, blood vessels damaged across part of the white, red irritation in the other half that goes into the brown, blurring the edge of the iris.

Ideas of her losing vision in that eye flood through his mind, how severe is the damage, could it impact her career? Is she going to be out of here before she’s even finished probationary hire? He was supposed to be looking out for her.

He sits outside her room at the Hope County Clinic, privacy or some sort of doctor crap, he can barely even remember the rest of the ride there. His back against the wall as he sits on the floor, ringing his hands, mind racing through a million possibilities.

“What the hell happened?” Whitehorse’s voice is what ends the frenetic mess in his head, if only for a second. The presence of the sheriff easing some of his nerves, knowing the older man will be able to handle this, whatever the situation may be.

He scrambles to his feet and explains everything that happened; from the porch falling in, him pulling his weapon but not firing, and an injured Rook having to subdue the suspect. Each word of it making him feel just a bit more pathetic, a bit weaker, he really fucked this up.

Whitehorse squeezes his shoulder, a warm heavy hand to comfort him.

“It’s okay, Pratt. Everything is gonna be fine, Rook’s made of tougher stuff than this.”

He sighs, unsure of how he feels by the statement. It’s meant to comfort him, and it does some part of him. He wants Rook to be okay, fuck does he need her to be okay. But, Whitehorse’s unwavering faith in her strength, makes him feel all the more pathetic in comparison.

The hospital room door opens, a doctor walking out, looking over at Whitehorse and Staci.

“You can come in now, if you’d like.”

Staci follows behind Whitehorse as they walk into the little clinic room, off white walls and floors greeting them. Rook’s sitting on the side of the white sheeted bed; seeing her cleaned up and moving is instant relief for Staci’s frayed nerves. Her face is bruised, her eye still messed up, but she’s no longer painted red with her own blood. His hands twitch, he realizes he wants to hug her, to pull her close and feel that she’s truly okay. But he can’t find the nerve to do it, unsure of how the young woman would react.

“So, what’re you dealing with?” Whitehorse asks her and she sighs.

“Needed some stitches, some glass scratched my cornea so vision in this eye is gonna be a little blurry, but it will heal. Minor skull fracture.”

“Skull fracture?” Staci can’t help but blurt out, that’s bad, isn’t it? Skulls are kind of important, being the thing that protects your brain. Why the hell is she just shrugging it off?

“It’s not bad, they don’t do anything for it. My head is gonna hurt like hell for a bit,” she shrugs, “if spinal fluid starts coming out my ears and nose, call 911, though I think that’s the rule for everyone.”

“Alright,” Whitehorse speaks up, “there’s gonna be some paperwork to take care of with your injury and your time off.”

“I’m not taking time off.” She’s emphatic, shaking her head like the sheriff is ridiculous to even suggest something like that.

“I’m not sending you out like this, Rookie, you need to worry about healing up.”

“You want me to take time off, during my probationary hire, that’s ridiculous.”

“Don’t stress, it’s not going to affect anything, just take two weeks off-”

“One week, max.”

“Fine, one week," Whitehorse gives him with a hefty sigh, "just take it easy. And actually take it easy, not doing anything to hurt yourself in the meantime.”

“Pfff,” she huffs out a breath and rolls her eyes, hopping up from the bed.

“We’ll go back to the station and take care of the paperwork.”

Whitehorse puts a hand on Staci’s back; the other on Rook’s as he walks them out the door. Staci feels exhausted as he gets into Whitehorse’s truck with them, someone having taken the cruiser back to the station for them. His body slackening into dead weight as he leans against the door; his nerves are shot to hell and back, he just wants to collapse after everything. She’s okay and that’s what matters most; his own insecurities be damned.

They arrive at the station; since it’s regarding just her injury and leave, Staci isn’t needed for the paperwork on this one. He instead waits outside, he’s not sure why, but he doesn’t feel ready to just go home yet. It’s after shift and usually he’d be at The Spread Eagle by now, sipping cheap beer and shooting the shit with Joey.

Speak of the devil, the older deputy is coming down the hall, nearly jogging towards him. And he’s wondering if she’s felt the way he did when he heard something happened to Danny, before they told him about the former deputy’s death. That anxiety of knowing something is wrong but not knowing the details, fear building ideas of what could have happened.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Rook got hurt, she’s gonna be okay, but, uh, Whitehorse is giving her the week off.”

“Thank god,” Joey lets out a sigh of relief, tension noticeably leaving her body, “I thought, jesus, I don’t know what I thought.”

“Yeah, uh, been a rough day…”

“How you holding up?”

“I fucking choked, Joey. The asshole was trying to kick her damn brains in and I choked.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” she tells him, a faraway look in her eye, “I get it, I do, but you can’t blame anyone but the asshole who hurt her.”

“It's not just that…” He sighs; is he really going to have this conversation? It feels so damn pathetic.

“So, what is it?”

“I...don’t worry about it.”

“Well, I’m certainly not gonna complain about skipping the feely talks. But, uh, for what it’s worth, hindsight is twenty-twenty. Beating yourself up over what you should have done, what you wish you’d have done, is pointless. You do your best in the moment and it’s all you can do.”

“I guess…”

“So...how this affect your little crush on Rook?” She asks after a beat of silence, trying to turn the conversation light-hearted.

“Ugh, don’t call it that. The only crush around here is Rook’s on you.”

“Yeah, right. You got it bad and we both know it.”

“I might have asked her if she’s gay.”

“Seriously, Pratt?”

“What,” he says halfway through a laugh, “she always follow you around like a puppy dog, I had to make sure I even had a chance.”

“Well, do you?”

“Maybe…if she stops crushing on you.”

“Eh, that’s nothing, she’ll be over it before you know it.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The only reason she’s like that with me is ‘cause she thinks I’m pretty, it’s completely superficial, like a little kid.”

“Well, do me a favor and stop being pretty?”

“No can do, you just gotta sack up and ask her out.”

“‘Cause the F.A.N.G Center went so well.”

“Okay, so ask her out and this time, be specific and talk slow.”

“She’s oblivious, not brain damaged.”

“Ehhh, debatable.”

He thinks for a moment, he likes Rook, he does. She’s cute and spending time with her is nice; being able to tease each other has made his job way less mind numbing. Relationships that go beyond the bedroom have never been his forte; it’s honestly been a while since he’s been on an actual date. But, he thinks it could be nice with her. There’s no telling if they’d actually click romantically, that’s not something you find out until you try it. It could be worth a shot.

But he thinks about today and thinks about the future for a moment, something he’s not fond of doing. Rook is still on probationary hire; who’s to say she’ll be here after the six month period. He doubts Whitehorse will get rid of her, maybe due to her age, he handles her with kid gloves and he’s always been a bit soft as far as sheriffs go anyway. But, it’s always a possibility if she crosses too big of a line or does something unforgivable.

Hell, she might decide she wants to leave, might realize Hope County is just not the place for her and head back to Louisiana.

At the moment he just likes her, nothing intense, nothing he can’t deal with losing. If he found out tomorrow she was fired and leaving, he’d be bummed sure, but he’d recover relatively quickly. But if they started dating, if it worked out and one date led to another. If they hit it off, meshed as well as he thinks they could and that ‘like’ grew into something more and then she had to leave...

“Once her probationary hire is over, I’ll do it,” he says out loud, committing himself to the action in front of Joey. Once that threshold has been crossed, once he has a little more reassurance that he can pursue Rook without fear of her leaving, he’ll go for it.

“You sure you can hold out that long?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me, Mister asked her out on the first day.”

“Shut up.”

Dahlia signs the last of the paperwork, her hand cramping, all of this fuss because someone hit her with a beer bottle. She’s still sick from the idea of having to take off a week, better than two, but she’d rather just do her job. So, her vision in one eye is a little blurry and her head hurts like crazy, big deal.

“There’s something else to address.”

“What’s that?” She raises an eyebrow at Whitehorse, let her out of paperwork hell, please.

“It’s up to you if you want us to press charges against him for assaulting you.”

“Oh.”

“If it matters, we’ve dealt with Ben a lot, he’s been beating his wife black and blue for years. But, she’s never willing to press charges and nothing’s been severe enough to bring him up on charges from the state.”

“Let’s do it, then.” She’s not sure how much it will help, without counseling and after care, who knows if the cycle can break. But, if she can get the guy put away, it will at least give her a chance to get out without fear of repercussions.

There’s some more paperwork associated with that, filling out a statement and the like. But, that’s more than worth it. She finishes it up and is massaging her hand to help alleviate the muscles that are cramping in distress.

“Also-”

“If I have to sign one more piece of paper, I’m gonna kill you.” She cuts him off and earns a chuckle in response.

“No, I just wanted to tell you, hell of a job, today.”

“All I did was get beat up.”

“You were in a high stress situation and you resolved it as best you could, you subdued him without deadly force, and showed you know how to handle yourself.”

“The standards are low, aren’t they?”

“You did good, be proud of yourself for a moment,” he tells her, squeezing her shoulder as he passes by. Her heart warms at the gesture, he thinks she did good. Despite being stuck taking a week off, he still thinks she did well.

Hands in her pockets, she’s grinning as she leaves the office, Hudson and Pratt are just outside; talking about who knows what. They’re usually off drinking right now, but he seemed freaked out about her injury, maybe he’s trying to make sure she’s okay. She’d appreciate it if that were the case.

“Hey, Rook,” Hudson greets her, bright smile, and Dahlia gives a small nod of her head. Unable to force words out of her throat.

“Everything taken care of?”

“Yeah...guess I’ll get to see you guys in a week,” she grumbles, still upset about it.

“Hey,” Hudson stops her before she can leave, “why don’t you come out to The Spread Eagle with us?”

“You know I can’t drink, right?”

“They serve water and pop,” Hudson says, shrugging.

“Um, okay…” Dahlia scratches sheepishly at the back of her neck, she gets to go out with them, her heart is warm. Between Whitehorse’s praise and being invited out with the other deputies, this is a pretty good night.

“Is that why you weren’t tagging along with us?” Pratt asks as they start to head towards the door.

“I didn’t know you wanted me to tag along…”

“Oh my god, you awkward little disaster.” Pratt ruffles her hair as he insults her and she playfully smacks his side, happy to see him joking around again.

The neon sign of The Spread Eagle flickers above Dahlia’s head as they walk to the old bar. It’s cheesy and ridiculous the logo of a scantily clad woman with she assumes eagle wings.

“So, I'm gonna live my life like it's my last damn night.”

“Cause when the clock strikes twelve, we're all gonna go to hell”

The jukebox and lowlight greet them, people spread around drinking at the bar and cozied up over the wooden tables. A little stage in the corner for those nights when they have live music. Behind the bar, Mary May works away at getting people their drinks, honey blonde hair tied up in a bun and her flannel’s sleeves pushed up to her elbows. A window behind her shows a glimmer of the kitchen, an older man with dark hair slaving over the orders.

“You’re late,” Mary May teases Hudson and Pratt as the deputies all grab seats at the bar, Dahlia between the two of them.

She’s never sat at a bar before and something about it feels decidedly mature to the young officer. That is until she can barely climb up there and unlike her two coworkers, her legs aren’t long enough for her feet to comfortable rest on the ground or even part of the stool. Her legs left to swing like a child’s.

“You can blame the probie for that one.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll try not to get my ass kicked in the future.”

“You finally gonna get your round of free drinks, hero?” Mary May asks her, a slight smile on her face and dear god, why must the women in this county be so pretty? The apples of Dahlia’s cheeks are growing warm.

“‘Fraid I can’t, still got a year before that’s legal,” she says, never mind if it’s maybe a bit closer to a year and three months.

“Well, a free meal it is then.”

“No, no, I can’t do that,” She quickly dismisses the idea, local businesses tend to need every dime they can get, she’s not letting Mary May cut herself short just because Dahlia did her job.

“Seriously, if it weren’t for you, I’d be shut down for the month, it is the least I can do.”

“Give it up, Rook, she’s not gonna budge,” Pratt tells her.

“She’s stubborn as a mule,” Hudson warns.

“You heard them, cowboy, your money’s no good here.” The cowboy nickname is a new one, but Dahlia doesn’t mind it, or the way it makes her smile.

“Fine, free meal, but I’m tipping.”

“Okay, okay, I can work with that.”

Hudson and Pratt get cheap weak beers and Dahlia gets a pop as they look over the food options. Everything makes her stomach growl; desperate for something more than convenience store food or microwave meals. There’s a sign below the window into the kitchen, saying they deliver, she wonders if the trailer park is too far away for it.

She decides to try something she’s never eaten before, a burger with huckleberry barbecue sauce, never having heard of the condiment before. Orders in, she can’t help but look around the room, taking in the decorations. Newspaper clippings beneath a neon blinking sign for Lease Lager, a little flag for Hope County Cougars, and a smaller flyer advertising something she’s seen billboards for all over; the Testicle Festival, advertised with a little screaming cartoon bull.

“The fuck is a Testicle Festival?”

“Pffff,” Pratt laughs and chokes on his beer, pulling it away and licking the beer away from his lips. Hudson cracks a big grin, pressing a hand to her mouth to hold back chuckles.

“I mean, it’s basically exactly what you sound like,” the older woman says, shrugging her shoulders.

“People get together and eat bull balls,” Pratt adds.

“Willingly?”

They both laugh as Dahlia looks at them wide eyed, that’s so fucking gross, why the fuck would someone eat that? She’s never been one to turn her nose up at any meal, but that so disgusting, her stomach churning at the very idea.

“Yeah, it’s a thing, I, don’t know what to tell you.”

“Montana is gross…”

“Oh, shut up, I’m sure they eat gross shit in Louisiana too.”

“Not really,” she shakes her head at Pratt, trying to think of the weirdest food she’s ate, well weird to them, “I mean, I’ve had alligator before.”

“You’ve ate alligator?”

“Yeah.”

“And you don’t think that’s weird?”

“I didn’t eat it’s balls!”

They cackle and laugh at her outburst, she’s joining along before she knows it, face flushing as she cracks up. She barely can remember the ache in her head or the blur in her vision, the more painful moments of the day forgotten as she loses herself in dumb banter and jokes. The burger is incredible, she’d lick the plate clean if she wasn’t in public. Hell, that fact is barely holding her back. She’s not sure how many colas she’s drank her way through, but at some point, her bladder is screaming at her.

“Let me guess, you gotta piss,” Pratt taunts her, reminding her of their little bickering match this evening, she’s an adult she’s allowed to piss.

“Fuck off.” She grabs a grimy fry off the ground andt she drops it down into his beer as she walks by.

She uses the bathroom and washes her hands, catching her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she does so. It’s the first time she’s got a proper look at herself since she was beat up. Stitches over the laceration under her eye, the skin bruised, the white of her eye purple with busted blood vessel with the brown of her eye blurring into it. An absolute mess and she grins.

There’s something fulfilling about getting in a fight, not starting but, making it through one. Having the marks to show it, knowing she held her own. Whether it was fights in school or when she’d fight back against her step-father, no matter how it ended up, she’d feel proud of herself. Whether because she fought back or simply because she survived. The aftermath was nothing more than a badge of honor marking what she went through. She’d take a thousand more stitches and bruises over the week off, if she’s being completely honest. Dahlia leaves the bathroom once her hands dry, shoving them in her pocket as she goes.

Oooh, oooh, ooh~

If I told you a lie, you could smile, my love.

You’d never understand.

The jukebox hums and Dahlia finds her eyes looking around the room, taking in the faces of the patrons. A shift of a door and the step of boots draws her eyes towards the door. Her breath catches in her throat, what the hell is a Seed doing here?

John Seed, the youngest of the brothers, is walking through the door. All of the siblings make her uncomfortable in some fashion, largely to do with their religiosity, but then they each have their own unique brand of unsettling. John reminds her of a sleazy car salesman, too sharp smiles that don’t reach his eyes. Even when he shook her hand at the church, something about him felt off, like he’s wearing a mask but she can’t quite tell what’s under it.

If I told you a tale, you’d cry, my love.

You’d never hold my hand.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Mary May yells over the bar, when she sees him.

There’s a glimmer of something in his eyes when he looks at her, not unlike a cat finding a mouse to tear apart. He strides to the bar with purposeful steps and he smirks, but unlike those salesman smiles, it reaches his eyes.

“I just thought I’d check in,” his eyes lazily scan the room, looking at the beer bottles and glasses of whiskey in patron’s hands, “do we really need to have this conversation again?”

“It’s a bar, the hell you expect me to serve?”

“I expect,” John puts his hand on the bar with a sharp sound, “you to listen to reason and start to understand your position.”

“Is something wrong?” Dahlia’s question escapes her without another thought, everything about John’s body language putting her on edge.

When it all bleeds out, you don’t know.”

When it all bleeds out.

John’s eyes leave Mary May and land on Dahlia, those piercing blue eyes cutting through to her core. He looks her up and down, as if she’s the mouse now. But she doesn’t shrink away or avoid his gaze, unwilling to show any signs of backing down in the face of his intensity.

Wake up, little man.

Don’t you break her heart.

“Dep-yoo-tee,” John speaks in a low drawn out way, emphasizing every syllable with the slow drag of his gaze on her.

“Stay out of it, Rook,” Pratt warns her as she walks past him and Hudson at the bar. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, why the fuck would she stay out of it? Supposedly, John already tried to get members of Eden’s Gate to steal Mary May’s alcohol shipment and now he’s showing up to push her around; fuck that shit.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Oh c’mon, little man.

Don’t you fall apart.

“I was just trying to have a little talk with Mary May, though she’s never been one for civility. More importantly, what happened here?”

He reaches out towards her face and she flinches out of reflex, John’s fingers grazing her bruised cheek before she smacks his hand away. Not sharp enough to truly hurt, but enough to force him away.

When the devil’s got you, but only by the hand.

“Hazard of the job and, please, don’t touch me.”

John’s eyebrows furrow, eyes growing dark and face scrunching for a moment in anger before he forces a soft smile. It doesn’t touch the stormy look in his eyes; another little mask hiding whatever’s lurking beneath the surface.

Let go, little man.

“Ah, you poor thing, you” his voice deepens with concern, but it feels more like pity. He fidgets with his sleeves and lets out a sigh, irritation seeping through the false concern. She has to resist the urge to smile, something satisfying in seeing his true emotions bubbling up.

“It is what it is, are you done with your ‘little talk’ now?”

His nostrils flare and he bites his lip, it feels like poking a bear, but she’s having fun with it. He gives another fake smile and she wants to wipe it off his face.

“With Mary May, yes, but I was hoping to speak with you more. Though,” he looks around, “this is hardly an ideal setting. Have you given any more thought to tomorrow?”

“Like, I said before, I have to work,” she says the white lie and dismisses him with a shrug, hopeful it will appease the Gucci wearing gremlin in front of her.

“You know, it’s not often The Father goes to the trouble of inviting someone himself,” he tells her, as if it’s meant to entice her. Instead the title ‘The Father’ just makes her skin crawl, not unlike the title her step-father took on with his own church. As if she needed more reasons to avoid these people.

“What are you talking about, Rook? You got a week off for your injury, remember?” Pratt pipes up and Dahlia’s blood runs cold, why the fuck would he do that to her? Why would he do that? John’s eyes go bright and a sly smile stretches across his face.

“Wonderful, I’ll see you there, dep-yoo-ty, service begins at nine in the morning.” John gives her arm a hard squeeze before he leaves, Dahlia’s skin crawling beneath his touch. Empty air where he once was within the next moment.

Yeah, I vow to the moon, yeah, I howl at the wind.

I’m bleeding and I can’t stay clean.

She’s expected to come to the service, dear god. The air is punched out of her lungs. Even being outside of a church put her nerves on edge, she’s not sure if she could step foot in one without getting sick. She moves behind Pratt and puts her hand on his shoulders.

“Hey, Rook, what are you-uuck-” Pratt’s words cut off as she moves and wraps her hands on either side around his throat. Not hard enough to genuinely hurt him, but enough to feel it as she shakes him and pretends to wring his neck .

“Why the fuck would you do that?!”

“It was funny,” he defends himself when she lets go and throws herself onto her chair, bringing one foot up into the seat as she leans back. Her body going slack with exasperation, she’s seriously going to have to go church?

“I fucking hate you, I actually fucking hate you.”

“God, you’re dramatic. It’s church, not like I volunteered you for a root canal.”

“I’d rather have the root canal.” She tosses her head back with a sigh, staring at the ceiling. Pratt doesn’t know her issue with religion, she knows that, so she can’t truly be angry at him. But, fuck, would it have killed him to keep his mouth shut?

“Well, I think I should probably get out of here before Rook kills me,” Pratt says as he pays for his meal and drink, standing up from his seat.

“I’m gonna head home too,” Hudson stands up and ruffles Dahlia’s hair, “cheer up, Rookie.”

Dahlia doesn’t even have the energy to get worked up about Hudson’s touch, peacefully letting the casual touch come and go with a mere blush. Then the two have left and Dahlia is trying to gather the energy to get up, with the looming reality that she’s expected to go to church in the morning, she no longer wants this night to end.

“Deputy,” Mary May says after a moment, baby blues watching Dahlia sigh and rub a hand down her face.

“Hmm?” Dahlia straightens her posture enough to look at Mary May properly, realizing how somber the bartender’s expression and posture really is. The blonde chews her lip, looking away, visibly searching for her words.

“Eden’s Gate has been in this county for a long time, hell, I was in high school when they moved in on us. They started buying places out left and right, they own half the damn county, now.”

“They have that much money?” Dahlia can’t help but ask, aren’t churches relatively low profit ventures, assuming you aren’t selling snake oil or asking people to donate money for Jesus.

“Got that much money, that much power, and they know how to twist the law to suit their needs. They want the entire county and everyone in it under their thumb…”

Her knuckles whiten as she grips the edge of the bar, a far away look in her soft blue eyes. Dahlia puts her hand over Mary May’s, hoping the warmth of her touch can help ease the sting, even if she’s not sure what’s hurting the blonde. It’s enough in the moment, it seems, Mary May looking up at her and giving a soft smile, speaking again after a beat of silence.

“You’re one of the few people around here who’s not rolling over and letting them do whatever the hell they want. I don’t wanna see that change. Just do me a favor, don’t drink the Kool-Aid.”

“Look at me,” Dahlia looks directly into Mary May’s eyes, “I’d rather play jump rope with my own intestines than join a church.”

“Good.”

Mary May is satisfied with that answer, smiling as she’s called away to get someone else a drink. Dahlia’s not sure what the history is there with her and John, but clearly something has happened. Other than the Eden’s Gate members stealing alcohol and Lonny’s asshole behavior, there’s not conclusive evidence that they’ve done anything more than petty theft. John’s opinion on Mary May selling alcohol, supporting that he might ask them to do that. Otherwise, anything else is just bad feelings and hearsay. She wants to trust they’re good people, just staunch in their beliefs and a little strange, always wanting the believe the best of people. But, she’s going to be sure to keep an ear to the ground and stay wary of them, knowing she’s apparently not the only one concerned about their shit.

Dahlia shakes her head and gets out her wallet, getting out enough for the meal and then some, calling it all a tip for the sake of getting past Mary May’s generosity. She puts it down on the bar under her plate, letting the bartender know she’s taking off for the night.

The night air chills her skin as she leaves the bar before she’s caught. She pulls a cigarette out as she loiters outside the bar, leaning back against the building’s porch. Dahlia takes a deep inhale looking off into the distance.

Even in the valley, the statue of Joseph Seed is looming in the distance, the tallest thing in the entire county. There must be light around it, setting the statue aglow at night. She lets out the smoke in her lungs as she’s reminded of the real man. It wasn’t long ago she could barely believe he was a real living person. The statue makes him seem too large, too imposing, too important to be tangible. Meeting him and his family still feels like a fever dream.

Faith is like a living fairy, floating along in a white dress with flowers in her hair. An ethereal being with long dirty blonde hair and bright green eyes. Dahlia’s dream or perhaps exhaustion induced hallucinations of chasing after her still making the woman feel like a specter.

John feels like someone pretending to be human or maybe it’s just how out of place he seems in the rustic little county. Dark slicked back hair, designer shades always on top of his head, silk shirts, and tailored vests; he looks like a Ken doll someone drew tattoos on.

The brother who didn’t bother to offer his name cuts possibly the most intimidating figure of them. He seemed larger than life. At least six foot six and wider than a door, dressed in army attire with his ginger hair shaved at the sides. The man could snap her spine in half if he had a half a mind to.

Then there’s Joseph, The Father, goosebumps raise on her skin when she thinks of his title. It’s bias, projections of her trauma that bring up those gross feelings when in reality he’s done nothing to her. His statue is true to his likeness in some ways, dark hair pulled back in a small bun and the full beard that seems standard for all men in Eden’s Gate. But at the end of it all, the statue is a composed sterilized version of the intense man who stood in front of her. The concrete can’t capture the intensity of his blue eyes, the way they cut through her, the way his choice of sunglasses turn them green. His unblinking stare as he stood out in the cold of night, shirtless with ink and scars marring his skin, sweat still sticking to him and strands of hair falling into his face.

But despite the wild appearance, he spoke calmly, he spoke deliberately and with devotion. He’s intense and he’s all encompassing, everything about him is too much, from his stare to the way his touch lingered for a moment more than it should have. His presences like a raging fire that can’t be ignored.

She has no real reason to dislike him, he’s done nothing cruel, he hasn’t wronged her. But every fiber of her being screams at her to stay away, that he’s everything she doesn’t want near her. A forest fire that her body is urging her to run away, lest she be burned to ashes.

It may be paranoia and experience perverting her feelings; and it may be gut instinct trying to save her.

But regardless, it seems she’ll be burned alive come morning.

#far cry 5 #fc5 #staci pratt #john seed #mary may fairgrave #dahlia hale #this is love

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eeveevie · 4 years

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Salvation is a Last Minute Business (10/18)

Chapter 10: Your Head Always Loses

Madelyn returns to the New England Medical Center, and coordinates with Sergeant Danny Sullivan to keep Nick safe while the hunt for Eddie Winter continues. After delivering heart-breaking news to her partner, she travels to the state house to speak with Hancock and MacCready in the hopes they may have a lead. Later, while mourning their loved ones in a downtown church, Madelyn learns a new truth about Deacon.

“When your head says one thing and your whole life says another, your head always loses.” - Frank McCloud as played by Humphrey Bogart (Key Largo, 1948)

[read on Ao3] x [chapter masterpost]

April 14th, 1958

By the time Madelyn and Deacon reached the New England Medical Center, the entire plaza had been barricaded, swarms of police vehicles surrounding the building while uniformed officers patrolled the perimeter, denying entry to anyone without hospital authorization. Local newshounds had crowded the emergency bay as well, clamoring for an interview with passing investigators and doctors. The chaos was more than Madelyn anticipated, the police attendance more abundant than she’d seen in recent months. The Boston Police department had been slow to respond to the increase in crime; disappearances, kidnappings and murders, most, if not all related to the gangland fight for territory. Rampant corruption had everything to do with their indifference—nearly the entire city had been bought out by Eddie Winter. She had every right to be suspicious of their presence, unsure of who to trust.

Piper had instructed them to enter through the side entrance, but Madelyn wasn’t convinced they’d be let through. Even if she managed to push forth some charm and use her credentials from the District Attorney’s office, it wasn’t a guarantee. The two circled the crowd, looking for a way forward. While Madelyn scanned the sea of people for a familiar face, she couldn’t help but glance to Deacon, who was uncharacteristically keeping his distance a few paces behind. He had donned his black wig and shielded his eyes, hiding any trace of the man she’d seen in her bed when she awoke just a few hours prior. For all the times he’d shown her comfort in the past, he wouldn’t touch her now, hadn’t done so since she roused from fainting.

The usually chatty Railroad agent was quiet now too, hardly speaking a word as they traveled from her apartment to downtown. Combined with the grief of Jenny’s death, Nick’s fate, and Winter’s whereabouts, Madelyn couldn’t make room in her heart for the turmoil their rift caused her. Separated by a few inches, it might as well have been miles with how her chest was aching. She clenched her fist, nails biting into her palms so she wouldn’t be tempted to reach out to him, desperate as she was to feel his hand in hers.

As they approached the entrance, a police officer predictably held them back with an outstretched hand, silently deferring to the throng of reporters. Madelyn dug through her purse for her identification, but the cop would not take the paper documentation, or give it a second glance.

“My partner is Nick Valentine, he’s a patient here. Jennifer Lands is—” she hesitated—was—and found her voice again. “Please, you have to let us through.”

The officer shook his head. “Ma’am, this is a secure scene. We’ve had enough loonies try and make their way into the E.R. this morning, we don’t need another one.”

He turned away, dismissing her in full. If she wasn’t frustrated before, she was now. Before she could argue or suggest that Deacon make himself useful and distract the guard so she could slip inside, another person came rushing towards them with enthusiasm. The man was shorter than her, and looked fresh out of college, baby-faced without a hint of stubble. He stuck out his arm, correcting his stance when he realized he’d shoved his notepad in her direction instead.

“Buster Connolly with the Boston Bugle,” he greeted in a rushed voice, as if his press credentials weren’t pinned to his coat. “Did you say you were with Nick Valentine? I could’ve sworn I recognized you! You’re the broad he’s always with, right?”

Beside her, Deacon bristled, but remained silent. She smiled politely, used to the microaggressions based on her gender that almost always erased her career accomplishments. Did anybody remember she was a lawyer anymore? Judging by how young Mr. Connolly was, his mishap was forgivable. Still, she was wary of his sudden interest and refrained from greeting him in kind—the Boston Bugle had its own problems with corruption when it came to covering Eddie Winter’s crimes.

Buster anxiously glanced to his notes. “Can you confirm the validity of the rumors that Eddie Winter was shot and injured sometime within the last forty-eight hours, and that there is currently a manhunt underway to locate him?”

Madelyn maintained composure, even as the memory came back in full force, flashes of Winter taunting her as he crushed her windpipe until she found the strength to fight back. Regret gripped at her with vice-like talons—if her aim had been deadlier, Buster wouldn’t be asking her these questions. If she’d had the nerve to kill him when she had the chance, Jenny would be alive.

“No comment,” Deacon answered for her, and she nearly flinched when his hand rested softly on the small of her back.

The young reporter frowned, flipping through more pages. “I have been tracking leads and rumors all across town, following the Valentine Detective Agency’s progress. Seems to me you’re the only ones that give a damn. There’s way more than what the police and media are telling us, but the higher-ups won’t let me publish anything on a whim.”

“I don’t have the same freedoms as that Public Occurrences paper does,” he lamented, practically staring at her in a similar way Dogmeat would when begging for table-scraps. “You gotta help me out. Is what they’re saying true? Is Eddie Winter behind everything that’s gone wrong in Boston?”

Piper’s voice echoed in her mind—freedom of the press—and she nodded.

“Yes,” she responded. “Yes, its all true.”

Buster scrambled to a fresh page, eager to write down the details, but he wouldn’t get a chance. The officer at the side entrance turned to face them again, pointing at her and Deacon.

“Miss Hardy was it?” he questioned, sheepishly. “I’ve been instructed to let you by. Sergeant Sullivan is inside waiting. He’s should be at the nurse’s station.” He instructed, pulling back one of the barricades so they could step through. “I uh…sorry about before.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

Just as Madelyn stepped through the doorway, she looked back to Buster, who was observing the entire exchange from the sidewalk. “Write the article.”

The inside of the hospital was just as bustling as it had been outside, nurses and doctors scrambling to work around the cops and detectives crowding the halls. Last night the emergency room had been a ghost town, but today almost every bay was occupied with freshly injured. In the center of it all, Sergeant Danny Sullivan stood, directing his men to different areas of the building and reading over reports passed to him by passing officers.

“What the hell happened?” Deacon muttered, surveying the mayhem.

Madelyn wondered the same, moving to where the Chief Sergeant was dismissing the last of his force. “…and send an extra squad to city hall. Don’t know if the bastard is brazened enough to attack the mayor, but after this…”

Sullivan rubbed at his jaw, deep in thought before performing a double-take in Madelyn’s direction. Instantly, his expression transformed into one of deep sorrow—a look she was all too familiar with. She wasn’t about to dismiss his sympathy, however, regardless of how new their alliance was.

“Miss Hardy,” he sighed, with a small shake of his head. “I didn’t think we’d be seeing each other again so soon, under such…grim circumstances.” His eyes flickered to where Deacon stood to her left, his hand still pressed against her back. “Is this your…?”

Sullivan’s subtle suggestion made Deacon drop his arm to the side, and she straightened, sucking in a breath so she wouldn’t overreact. In the past, he would’ve jumped at the opportunity to joke about being her significant other. Given the situation, it hardly seemed appropriate now. Nevertheless, the loss of contact left her cold. She steadied her resolve, knowing it was not the time to worry about her tumultuous feelings for the man.

“Sergeant Sullivan,” she greeted with a small gesture. “This is Deacon. I may have mentioned his work with the agency.”

“What is it that you do, exactly?” Sullivan asked, light eyes studying him carefully from head to toe as they shook hands.

Deacon offered a small shrug, a glimmer of his usual self shining through. “That’s a need to know basis.”

Madelyn redirected the conversation, needing answers to the questions burning in her mind. “What happened?” she asked, voice breaking as she fought back a sudden wave of emotion.

Sullivan released a long sigh. “What we gathered from witness reports is that a group of Winter’s men attacked the hospital just before daybreak. They took hostages, including Miss Lands. A police force showed up, but it was a mix of his pocketed men and straight cops. All hell broke loose as soon as I arrived on scene.”

He pointed to the various medical bays. “We’ve got a few downed officers, two nurses, and one of Eddie’s,” he swallowed, the grim expression returning. “One fatality.”

Jenny.

Madelyn nodded, shifting her gaze to a far corner where the lights were dimmed, curtains drawn tight to prevent entry. Outside, two heavily armed officers stood guard, giving the appearance they were protecting a priceless set of jewels rather than a corpse. Jennifer Lands was precious, however, deserving of such safeguarding. The guilt threatened to suffocate Madelyn as she thought—if only Jenny had been under such careful protection when she was alive.

“Where’s Nick?” she barely managed to ask.

“Safe. He woke up an hour ago,” he explained with a deep frown. “He doesn’t know about…” Sullivan shifted uncomfortably. “He’s under the impression we’re here because it was a failed attack on his life.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t?” Madelyn countered.

“Until Winter is caught, I don’t think any of us are safe,” he responded. The sergeant further contemplated her question, fingers tapping at his chin. “I’d like to move him to a new, secure location, but I’m not sure if he’ll agree.”

At least Sullivan understood who he was working with. Nick wasn’t conscious when she’d set up their arrangement, and even before the Eddie Winter case, had never gotten along with the sergeant or Boston’s finest. Considering he was awaking to a new reality in which Eddie Winter was still free and his fiancé was dead, Madelyn wasn’t sure how her partner would react.

“I’ll talk to him,” she said, realizing she’d be the one to tell him about Jenny’s fate—a heavy burden, but it wouldn’t be right if the news came from anyone else.

Sergeant Sullivan escorted the two around the nurse’s station to the opposite side of the emergency bay, to the farthest room with a door. The blinds in the window had been drawn shut, either to stop bystanders from peeking in, or to prevent Nick from seeing more than necessary. A well-dressed detective stood guard, nodding to his superior as they approached. On the other side of the door, a body stood from the row of waiting-room chairs.

“Blue?”

Madelyn didn’t hesitate to embrace Piper as her friend rushed towards over, arms wrapping around her in a tight circle. The usually sarcastic and chipper reporter was now sobbing, face burrowed in the fabric of her friend’s coat. Madelyn consoled her, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over—if she lost poise now, she’d never be able to face Nick.

“It all happened so fast,” Piper’s muffled voice whispered by her ear. “Jenny—she, she’d stepped out for only a minute and the next thing I knew, Winter’s men were attacking. I shouldn’t have let her out of sight—”

Madelyn hushed her, wanting to take away the blame. If anyone was responsible, it was her—for letting Eddie Winter escape and live out his revenge plot fantasies. Nobody else deserved to shoulder the weight of that blame. Piper slowly pulled away, rubbing at her eyes before releasing a shaky breath. She regarded the two men standing astride with mild discontent but quickly refocused on Madelyn.

“I couldn’t tell Nick,” she spoke, the devastation and exhaustion clear. “He was too delirious, wanting an update on Winter, asking about you…” Piper pursed her lips, preventing herself from weeping once more. “Asking for Jenny.”

There was no stopping the tears now, hazing her vision as she blinked them away so they’d slide down her cheeks. With a small nod, she moved to open Nick’s door, but Piper stopped her, turning her away for one last hushed exchange of words.

“Did—did something happen between you and Deacon?” she asked, glancing over her friend’s shoulder to where he was standing out of earshot with Sergeant Sullivan. Was it that obvious? Madelyn didn’t have the time to explain it was more of a non-event that was causing the palpable tension in the air.

She frowned, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Not now.”

For once, Piper didn’t dig for more information. The two exchanged one last solemn look before Madelyn slowly let herself into the hospital room. The fluorescent lighting wasn’t as harsh in the small space, but the smell of antiseptic tickled her nose. Nick was propped up in the bed, the thick swath of bandages visible through his gown. He was still connected to an IV, and judging by the way his head rolled, they were keeping his pain managed.

“Hey doll,” he rasped, the green of his eyes dull when they slid open to look at her in the doorway. “Why all the tears?” his lips pulled to the side in some semblance of a smirk. “I’ve never felt better.”

God—she choked back a sob—she was going to break his heart, and her own in the process. Hesitantly, she approached and stood next to the bed, gasping when his hand reached out grasp hers. Her knees were trembling—hell, her whole body was shaking with the overwhelming anxiety of what she had to say. Nick’s eyebrows furrowed, sensing there was something wrong. He studied her face, eyes lingering across the bruises around her neck. But she shook her head, preventing him from speaking.

“Nick,” she gripped his hand tighter, bracing herself to that spot. “I—I’m so sorry—”

He was perplexed. “What? What for?”

Madelyn didn’t miss a beat. “Jenny.”

It was all she needed to say.

Nick squeezed her hand hard—reactionary—and then simply let go. She watched his face, the clench of his jaw as the realization set in. Their eyes met, silently confirming the horrible truth—Jenny, his Jenny was dead. Madelyn had never seen Nick cry, but there was a first time for everything. Silent, as they streamed down his face and left tracks on his skin. She hadn’t known what to expect, but somehow, the subdued reaction was all the more unnerving—like his soul had departed, leaving behind an empty shell.

Then, he asked the inevitable. “Where is Winter?”

Unable to hide the truth from him, she answered honestly. “I don’t know.”

Nick recoiled, expression swiftly shifting as the anger bubbled to the surface. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I—” Madelyn gaped, stumbling over what to say. “I shot him.”

She left out the details in-between, even though the marks on her skin were clear as day. She continued, struggling to stay in check—quickly spiraling when it wasn’t fair to Nick, who had every right to his emotions.

“I had to help save you,” she explained, tentatively resting her hand against his arm. “He—he got away.”

“He should be dead!” Nick barked, tearing away from her.

Madelyn flinched at the sound of his voice, echoing through the room. She couldn’t deny him the rage, however—he was right—and it was her fault. No explanation or apologies would ever suffice for the grief she’d caused. Nick started to shift from the bed, blinded by his fury.

“I’m going to find that bastard and blow his brains out!”

The door to the hospital room swung open, two nurses shooing Madelyn away as they practically pushed Nick back into the bed, one deftly administering a sedative that had him complacent within moments, and unconscious the next. Piper and Sullivan stood in the doorway, watching intently, parting to make room for her exit. She nearly collapsed in the closest chair but knew she couldn’t succumb to the darkness yet.

“Do you have any leads on Winter’s possible location?” she asked, surprising the two with her demeanor.

“Miss Hardy, I’ve got the rest of my best men working this, and officers on loan from Salem and Nahant combing the city,” he explained, trying to set her at ease. “You don’t need to do the legwork anymore.”

“Yes,” she argued, glancing to Piper who understood the determination and remorse she was carrying. “Yes I do.”

The reporter nodded at the sergeant. “We have our own resources. Our own informants. Blue just might turn up something your best men can’t.”

Sullivan relented with a long sigh. “Please, at least take a police escort—”

“No,” she protested, flicking her gaze to where Deacon was leaning against the opposite wall, expression unreadable as ever. That is, until she spoke, and his lips twisted into a frown. “I need to do this alone.”

The group said nothing, though she wondered if any of them truly agreed with her sentiment. Regardless, she had a plan, and needed to follow through with it.

“I’ve placed my faith in you Danny,” she said, glancing back into Nick’s room with a solemn expression. The sergeant silently nodded, understanding her meaning. “Don’t make me question that choice.”

The Old State House used to be the seat of Massachusetts government, until the New State House was built to replace it, standing tall for over a century. While Mayor McDonough occupied the new building and city hall, the Old State House doubled as a museum and John Hancock’s base of operations. One of the last places of refuge in Scollay Square, the mayor’s brother had built a reputation for himself as a trusted member of society. Still a somewhat shady character—you wouldn’t want to double-cross him—but he took care of his own. Fed the hungry, ran grassroot campaigns for the underprivileged, and was currently running a fierce campaign in an effort to kick the older McDonough from office. While Madelyn had limited run-ins with the man in the past, she knew he was somebody she could trust. Especially when it came to helping Nick and hunting down Eddie Winter.

Of the people, for the people—she regarded the red banner strung from the overhead balcony before entering the building, noting the sign that directed her upstairs if she was looking for ‘the offices of Mr. Hancock’. On the second story landing, she was greeted by a familiar face, though his actions were troublesome.

“Robert?”

MacCready grimaced at the formal use of his name, briefly pausing in his pacing to regard her as he took a long drag of his cigarette. He had never quite looked his age, but right now, he looked even worse for wear.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, glancing around. “Is everything okay?”

“I should be asking you that,” he responded, shaking his head. “Heard what happened at the hospital. To Nick,” he frowned, stopping to frown. “To Jenny.”

“But Eddie Winter is still out there? And here I am, a rat that helped you guys chase him down!” he continued, rushing through his words as he smoked through one cigarette and lit another. “I could be next!”

Madelyn sighed, wringing her hands together as she listened to the fear in his voice. Sullivan had made a similar notion—nobody was safe. As long as Eddie Winter remained free, anybody could be his next victim. She was about to offer her sympathy when the door behind him creaked open, revealing Hancock.

“Look who it is,” he greeted with an easy grin. By his side, a young boy was holding his hand, nervously hiding behind the trail of his red coat. “Did I mention how your pacing is scaring the kid?”

MacCready straightened, flicking his half-smoked cigarette to the ground, snubbing it out with his boot. “Sorry.”

“You ask me to babysit, and this is the thanks I get?” Hancock softly laughed, encouraging the young boy to step out from behind him. He crossed over to the mercenary, gripping his hand instead, switching his curious gaze towards Madelyn.

“This is Duncan, my son,” MacCready explained. “Can you say hi to the pretty lady?”

She smiled, maybe for the first time that day as Duncan waved his little fingers in her direction. “Hello.”

Hancock noticed her disposition and waved her over to his office. “Okay, the grownups are going to chat now,” he teased, earning an eyeroll from MacCready. “Bye-bye Duncan!”

“Bye-bye, John,” the little boy responded. “Bye-bye, pretty lady.”

Hancock hovered his arm around her waist as he led her inside, gesturing her to sit in the large, leather chair before his desk. Instead of sitting in his chair, he leaned against the sturdy oak, and crossed his arms.

“First, I want to offer my condolences,” he said, lips twisting into a grimace. “I know Nicky and I aren’t close, but it ain’t right what they did to Jenny.”

Madelyn nodded, twisting her fingers into the fabric of her dress. “That’s why I’m here, actually.”

“What, for sympathy?” Hancock smirked.

“No,” she furrowed her brows, remembering how difficult the man could be. “For help. Eddie Winter. He’s still out there. I want to know if you know anything, if you’ve heard anything.”

Hancock’s eyebrows jumped up in surprise, but he relaxed. “That’s a big ask, sister. But I’m happy to oblige. Winter is no friend of mine.”

“There were rumors that the police knew Eddie was planning on going after Valentine and Jenny, but it seemed so outrageous that nobody wanted to believe he’s be so brazen to go after a civilian.”

Madelyn knew there was truth to that based on the holotape with Eddie Winter’s vague threat. To hear there was more behind his recorded warnings, that the police knew—she was horrified. Though, it explained why so many corrupt officers showed up at New England Medical Center, only to cornered by Sullivan and his team. Jenny’s death, it seemed, was inevitable.

“I’m going to say something controversial, but hey, its kind of my shtick,” Hancock shrugged. “Did you ever stop to think Jenny was allowed to die, so they’d have something concrete to go after Winter for? This city doesn’t give a shit about mobsters being offed. But a beautiful, innocent dame?”

He cocked his head to the side, raising his hands. “Talk of the town.”

Her gut reaction was to stand and punch the blonde man’s grin off of his face. Reason and sensibility held her back as she thought about what he was suggesting. One person came to mind.

“Do you know anybody at the Boston Bugle?”

“Why?”

Madelyn shifted in her seat. “If we can’t find Winter the old-fashioned way, it’s time to lure him out. Scare him out with what we know. Piper’s tried with her smear campaigns, but it isn’t enough.”

Hancock nodded, understanding where she was heading. “Yeah, I got connections. And if they aren’t willing, I can be…persuasive.”

She stood, grasping his hand in a firm handshake. Surprisingly, the man pulled her into a loose hug, patting her affectionately on the back. When he pulled away, there was a subdued smile pulling at his lips.

“Whatever you need, sister.”

It was late by the time Madelyn left the Old State House, and common sense told her it was best to head home. Yet, she refused a ride from Hancock and neglected to share a cab with MacCready, insisting she would be fine on her own as she wandered aimlessly down the sidewalk. Walking alone in the dead of night in Boston Common—any rational person would call her crazy. Maybe she had a death wish. Or maybe, she was hoping Eddie Winter would surprise her from some dark alleyway and she’d get a second chance at taking him down. Realistically, though, she wasn’t sure if she’d be capable even if with a new opportunity for revenge. That belonged to Nick, and Nick alone.

Madelyn headed west, lingering for a long moment by the park gates. She hadn’t been there since early January, and before then, she had avoided the area ever since Nate’s murder. Instead of drifting towards the spot in the street where she’d lost a part of herself years ago, she stared down at the strip of red brick that signified the Freedom Trail. She studied the bronze plate, frowning at the red paint that had faded over time.

“Dame like you shouldn’t be out this late.”

Deacon. She twisted around to find him leaned against the nearest streetlight, hands tucked deep into his coat pockets. It mirrored their first—second—meeting, albeit the tone and dynamic between them had changed significantly since that cold, snowy night. Even so, she was glad to see him, heart a nervous pitter-patter in her chest when she thought about the circumstances keeping them apart.

“Nice to know you’re still following me around,” she responded lightheartedly, offering a small smile.

He approached—careful measured steps before he was standing in front of her with a similar, hesitant expression. “Of course,” he replied. “Someone’s got to.”

“Come on,” he said next, raising his arm to silently encourage her to link elbows.

Madelyn reciprocated, savoring the sensation, unsure of how long the physical contact would last. They had crossed an unspoken boundary—almost kissed—and now, she feared their bond would never be the same. It was selfish of her to want more, how greedy she felt to have his hands on her body, but it wasn’t meant to be. For now, she’d take what little comfort she could get.

She didn’t ask him where they were going as he led them further away from Boston Common, closer to Trinity Plaza and the library. It wasn’t until they circled the street corner and paused that she realized his intended destination—Trinity Church. The tall building, with its exquisite arches and stonework, stained glass windows shimmering in the moonlight stood as a sanctuary in the center of the Back Bay district. A beacon of hope to many, but to Madelyn, the sight made her anxious.

“Come on,” Deacon encouraged again, gently tugging her along when her feet didn’t budge from the sidewalk. She steadied herself, gripping his arm tight as she moved. If this is where he wanted to go, then she could find the resolve to follow.

Inside, the church was devoid of congregants, the lone priest silently acknowledging the two as they passed through the corridor and between the many rows of pews. Deacon led her towards the front corner of the expansive building, their footsteps echoing off the vaulted ceiling as they went. He stopped before the small dais of burning votive candles and shifted his arm to gently hold her hand. Growing up in a devoutly Catholic home, she was more than familiar with their intended use, and figured Deacon shared a similar upbringing—with all his biblical references and insistence on Railroad safehouse locations being abandoned churches, she’d be surprised if that turned out to be another one of his lies. She was only confused as to why he’d brought them there now. Madelyn couldn’t remember the last time she’d prayed, let alone in a church, and she hadn’t lit a candle for someone since Nate’s funeral. The memory had her trembling, squeezing Deacon’s hand so she wouldn’t collapse to the floor in a fit of tears.

“Remember when I said it couldn’t get much worse?” Madelyn recalled, swallowing the lump in her throat as she watched the flickering flames. “I’m afraid I was lying.”

“I do it all the time,” he responded with a cynic, half-smile and then reached out for a loose taper, passing one to her free hand. She dipped the end into the flame before passing it along to a new candle, watching as the wick ignited.

“For Nick,” she whispered, repeating the action for another name, the prayer silent in her mind. “For Jenny,” her voice wavered as she thought about how fresh that grief was. Some wounds never healed. Her vision was hazy with tears when she spoke again, lighting one last candle. “For Nate.”

Deacon’s grip on her hand tightened and she glanced to him, watching intently as he mimicked her movements, lighting his own candle. She figured that lone flame signified all the Railroad lives that had been lost—friends and colleagues that he couldn’t protect—like High Rise, or Henry.

He sighed. “For Barbara.”

Madelyn stared at his profile, unable to respond. An overwhelming sense of curiosity was begging her to ask—but she remained silent, releasing a shaky breath only when she realized she’d been holding it in. He turned his head, ever so slightly, and she knew he was looking at her through the darkened shades. She could feel the rapid beat of his pulse along his wrist, terrified he would pull away. But he stayed perfect still, just watching her.

“I’m a liar,” he suddenly spoke, not in the usual teasing manner he admitted to. This was anguish—regret. “Everybody knows it. I make no secret of it. Because the truth is, I’m a fraud. To my core.”

She didn’t know what to say, baffled at where this sorrow was coming from. Then again, maybe the events of the last few days, weeks and months had finally caught up to Deacon, and she had been the catalyst. Pushing him too far by asking too much of him, revealing too much of his true self. As if she didn’t have enough regrets.

“When I was young—God, how long ago now—I was…” he winced, eyebrows knitting together. “I was scum. Violent—”

Madelyn interjected. “We all make mistakes.”

“These weren’t just mistakes,” he protested. “You have no idea what I did.”

She gave him the chance to explain, and he did, continuing with a heavy sigh.

“Freshman year at Massachusetts Bay, I ran with a gang,” he started. “This was when all the crime families still had their footholds in Boston, and the Gunners had their fair share of crime statistics. We were the University Point Deathclaws—sounds cliché, but we were ruthless. Terrorized South Boston and Quincy just as much as those Gunner bastards.”

“Were you really that bad?” she asked, chest tightening. Madelyn wasn’t sure if it was in fear of the truth, or sadness that he’d held this back from her for so long.

“Worse,” Deacon muttered, turning away. “We kept egging each other on. Started with some property damage, graduated to some beat downs. Then, inevitably, a murder.”

Madelyn refrained from reacting, even though her heart was racing—so loud, she could hear it pounding in her ears. He had to be selling her another one of his lies, but there was a certain level of sincerity in his tone that told her otherwise. It was all true. He didn’t say anything for a long time, fingers twitching in her grasp, unable to look in her direction.

“Believe me when I say I didn’t know what they had planned to do that night until I was called up to help dispose of the body. That was enough for me,” his jaw tightened. “It was his eyes. Those eyes haunt me.”

Deacon continued, the burning candles reflecting off his shades. “As soon as I was able, I turned my brothers in, turned witness for the prosecution, and walked away scot free. It wasn’t fair, but back then, I only cared about getting as far away from the Deathclaws as possible. I broke all contact, transferred to D.C. and moved on with my life.”

“Then one day I found someone,” he said, pausing to release an uneven breath. “She saw something in me I didn’t know was there. Barbara, well, she was…She just was. I didn’t deserve her, but I married her all the same.”

Madelyn swallowed down the pain that burned at her throat, unable to ignore the way her stomach twisted into knots. Another woman—a woman who had loved him, and who he had loved in return. She cursed at the jealous thoughts running through her mind, knowing she had no right to them. Not when she had experienced a similar past—a profound love that had slipped through her fingers, lost forever.

“We were trying for kids,” he admitted, digging the knife in further—but he had no way of knowing that she and Nate had similar plans before his death. “Being with her made me feel like the whole world had a chance. She could do that to people.”

It was incredibly difficult to force herself to speak, to sound genuine. “She sounds special.”

“She was,” he responded. “The Claws found out about where I was, came to get their revenge. There was…blood.”

“I—I’m so sorry,” her breath left her in a strangled gasp. Even though she could infer the answer, she had to ask. “They…they killed her?”

Deacon glanced her way. “Yes.”

“I don’t remember much clearly after that. I know I killed most of them—self-defense maybe, but I must’ve made a big impression. The Railroad made contact, helped me disappear. They were sympathetic, seeing I’d just lost my wife. And, well, what I did afterwards.”

“I had no idea,” she murmured, shellshocked by his confession. He’d killed—found the revenge she’d been denied after losing a beloved—she wasn’t sure if she should be terrified of him, or in awe.

“Nobody does,” Deacon replied, nearly broken. Her heart leapt at the realization—she was the only one that knew. “I don’t even know why I lie anymore. But I can’t tell the truth. Everyone—Tom, Dez, Carrington, you…” he trailed off with a despondent sigh. “They deserve to be in the Railroad. I don’t. I’m everything wrong with this whole fucking Commonwealth, just as bad as Winter’s men who’ve been murdering and corrupting the city.”

“Charmer, you’re—” He squeezed her hand like it was the only thing keeping him rooted to that spot. “I don’t deserve—”

The words died on his tongue, leaving her to speculate what he couldn’t say. Madelyn always knew they were two sides to the same coin but didn’t realize how alike their pasts were. They had walked mirrored paths to end up in that exact moment, clasped hand-in-hand like two converging souls finding their way back to one another. Nothing had ever left her so confused, yet so full of clarity at the same time, every past flicker of emotion she’d held for him validated in one single moment. Fate had brought them together—a cruel fate—but fate nonetheless, and Madelyn didn’t want to let go.

“Why tell me the truth now?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

Deacon’s response was an action—simple enough—the gentle swipe of his thumb across her fingers, over the spot where she should’ve been wearing her wedding ring. She understood immediately, thinking back to the shared moment in her apartment and his hesitation to kiss her. But now, he’d lowered his emotional guard, let her beyond the walls where no one had been in years. He needed her to accept him for who he was—not just devoid of his disguises and gimmicks—but without the lies and stories. All the flaws, the mistakes—he needed her to understand he was still seeking atonement for the past.

So was she.

Madelyn caught him off guard when she turned towards him, gently tugging on his hand so he’d face her properly. He stared at her expectantly, lips parted as if he had something to say. Their conversation still weighed heavily on her mind—she wanted to kiss him, but there was still too much grief consuming her heart. Without saying another word, she wrapped her arms around his torso, pressing her face against his shoulder as she hugged him, hoping it would be enough. Instantly, his arms enveloped her, tucking her tight against his chest as he rested his chin on her head. Wrapped in the warmth of his embrace, she felt at peace, listening to the pounding of his heart.

“I’m in your corner, Deacon,” she said, quietly mumbling the words into his shoulder, echoing a sentiment he’d shared with her before. “I’m with you, till the bitter end.”

#fallout 4 #noir au #deacon x f!solesurvivor #madelyn hardy #deacon #nick valentine #piper wright #robert joseph maccready #hancock #danny sullivan #this chapter was the ultimate doozy in terms of ouch emotional pain #plus a tender church scene #there's some use of canon dialogue here but hey #8 chapters left? jfc

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