[ There's a lot about fatherhood and family life he hadn't been prepared for; that was why he had run from it for so long. He could have anticipated what parts of him would chafe against this arrangement, and all of the ways in which it would not be the idyll Abigail had been convinced it would be. In that was all of the obvious reasons; his raw temper, the danger each day held, his lack of patience. Every likelihood said that Jack would one day wake up fatherless - and John's too aware of what little guarantee there was that he would be any worse off for it.
There were the obvious stones in the road - obvious to him, if not Abigail. He'd learned some things since Clemens Point. He was ready to try and steer around them now, if that was what better would take.
Tonight is not a stone in the road. It is no jagged tooth that John can see coming. This is something common, but hidden; a rattlesnake in the grass that he'd learned to live with, sounding its tail.
John still feels the shaggy rope around his neck as he bursts back into consciousness, shooting upright from the hard floorboards as his heart pounds in his ears. He grabs for it at his throat, rolling over to his elbows. His lungs still feel hungry, his throat still burns. Normally, this would be where such an episode started, and ended; he would hold his head between his shoulders until his breathing calmed and the phantoms in the dark evaporated.
Normally, he didn't lift his head to see his son's round and frightened eyes staring back at him from the darkness.
His blood turns to rain, and the air in the room thins uncomfortably. The bed rustles behind him, and John has had all that he can take. ]
Stay here.
[ Murmured under his breath as he climbs to his feet and quickly removes himself from the room, seeking the staircase in his haze. He feels the splintering handrail under his fingers and stairs passing too quickly beneath his feet, and then he's outside, the air thick and hot and filled with buzzing insects and croaking bullfrogs. John picks a direction and walks, quickly. ]
It was a bright, clear morning with the smell of fresh snow drifting down from the Grizzlies' icy caps. Camp was in a basin tucked like a belly button in the mountain's waist, a rocky green place with thick trees fit for obscuring the gaggle of hands, hooves and cloth that was the Van der Linde gang.
Hosea, having slept in his heavy coat, ruffled out of it now and creaked down by a small bed of embers at the edge of camp to heat water for coffee. It was early enough that the drunks were still sweatily sleeping it off, the boys too bruised and tired to be a part of this world, and the women would be up in another half hour to start churning some life out of the whole group.
The old man sat by a tent pitched furthest from that of the gang's leader, looking down at a break in the trees where the long stretch of mountainside rolled out into a green sea of grass. He rubbed the stubble on his chin and the sleep from his eyes and poured bitter coffee into the old machine while the sun peeked over the mountain's shoulder and slowly turned the waving sea to gold.
"It's almost enough to make all the rock mattresses in the world worth it," he said to the tent, the woman and the boy wrapped up in some dowager's afghan. Sitting by the fire with his coat pooled over his twiggy legs, Hosea almost looked like a sultan of old wound up in silks and seated on a velvet cushion. But what sultan ever had to stitch his shirt cuff back on with butcher's twine?
Edited (forgot I actually have icons thanks to Atown) 2025-03-18 15:49 (UTC)
Vasilka rode into camp at Clemens Point on her little donkey, its saddlebags laden with necessities, and perhaps a few things that weren't. But she hoped these small tokens would be appreciated by their intended recipients.
She waved to one of the guards as she passed by and made her way to the hitching post, where she dismounted and tied the lead to one of the wooden bars. The little donkey heaved a sigh and shook its head, eying the other horses hitched nearby.
"You behave yourself, Bustle." Vasilka grinned and patted its shoulder. "You're a guest here, so mind your manners."
Satisfied, the donkey lowered its head and began to graze while Vasilka rummaged through one of the saddlebags, pulling out a small assortment of books wrapped in butcher paper, along with a few other items. She scanned the premises as the smell of coffee and venison stew wafted through the humid air, reminding her that she'd skipped a hearty breakfast that morning in the vain hope that she might catch sight of Arthur before he left camp for another job.
Well, so much for that. Vasilka tried to temper her disappointment as she made her way further into the encampment, nodding to the various inhabitants milling about, performing chores or simply lazing about. Professor Dekarios was conspicuously missing among the lot. Vasilka pursed her lips, wondering if he had also left for the day.
She spied Abigail near her tent, huddled in a blessed bit of shade while she worked on her mending. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, her forehead glistening with a sheen of sweat. Even sewing seemed too strenuous a task in this infernal heat!
Vasilka made her way over and stood at a polite distance, as if she were greeting Abigail on her front porch and not just a bare patch of ground in front of her tent.
"Hello, Abigail," she said, adjusting the parcels within her arms. "Sorry to bother you, but do you know if the professor is here at the moment? I have those journals he requested, and I wanted to make sure he got them."
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There were the obvious stones in the road - obvious to him, if not Abigail. He'd learned some things since Clemens Point. He was ready to try and steer around them now, if that was what better would take.
Tonight is not a stone in the road. It is no jagged tooth that John can see coming. This is something common, but hidden; a rattlesnake in the grass that he'd learned to live with, sounding its tail.
John still feels the shaggy rope around his neck as he bursts back into consciousness, shooting upright from the hard floorboards as his heart pounds in his ears. He grabs for it at his throat, rolling over to his elbows. His lungs still feel hungry, his throat still burns. Normally, this would be where such an episode started, and ended; he would hold his head between his shoulders until his breathing calmed and the phantoms in the dark evaporated.
Normally, he didn't lift his head to see his son's round and frightened eyes staring back at him from the darkness.
His blood turns to rain, and the air in the room thins uncomfortably. The bed rustles behind him, and John has had all that he can take. ]
Stay here.
[ Murmured under his breath as he climbs to his feet and quickly removes himself from the room, seeking the staircase in his haze. He feels the splintering handrail under his fingers and stairs passing too quickly beneath his feet, and then he's outside, the air thick and hot and filled with buzzing insects and croaking bullfrogs. John picks a direction and walks, quickly. ]
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Flexin my Hosea muscles while bored at work, hmu any time boo
Hosea, having slept in his heavy coat, ruffled out of it now and creaked down by a small bed of embers at the edge of camp to heat water for coffee. It was early enough that the drunks were still sweatily sleeping it off, the boys too bruised and tired to be a part of this world, and the women would be up in another half hour to start churning some life out of the whole group.
The old man sat by a tent pitched furthest from that of the gang's leader, looking down at a break in the trees where the long stretch of mountainside rolled out into a green sea of grass. He rubbed the stubble on his chin and the sleep from his eyes and poured bitter coffee into the old machine while the sun peeked over the mountain's shoulder and slowly turned the waving sea to gold.
"It's almost enough to make all the rock mattresses in the world worth it," he said to the tent, the woman and the boy wrapped up in some dowager's afghan. Sitting by the fire with his coat pooled over his twiggy legs, Hosea almost looked like a sultan of old wound up in silks and seated on a velvet cushion. But what sultan ever had to stitch his shirt cuff back on with butcher's twine?
dad!!
daughter!!, enjoy this description of my fave coffee drinking experience
it speaks to my heart
Set my book down in the middle of a sentence when I remembered I get to talk to my daughter
what an honor!!
tfln overflows
@ imperdonado
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@ cervid
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just rolls with modern AU shit I dunno
we do what we want
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She waved to one of the guards as she passed by and made her way to the hitching post, where she dismounted and tied the lead to one of the wooden bars. The little donkey heaved a sigh and shook its head, eying the other horses hitched nearby.
"You behave yourself, Bustle." Vasilka grinned and patted its shoulder. "You're a guest here, so mind your manners."
Satisfied, the donkey lowered its head and began to graze while Vasilka rummaged through one of the saddlebags, pulling out a small assortment of books wrapped in butcher paper, along with a few other items. She scanned the premises as the smell of coffee and venison stew wafted through the humid air, reminding her that she'd skipped a hearty breakfast that morning in the vain hope that she might catch sight of Arthur before he left camp for another job.
Well, so much for that. Vasilka tried to temper her disappointment as she made her way further into the encampment, nodding to the various inhabitants milling about, performing chores or simply lazing about. Professor Dekarios was conspicuously missing among the lot. Vasilka pursed her lips, wondering if he had also left for the day.
She spied Abigail near her tent, huddled in a blessed bit of shade while she worked on her mending. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, her forehead glistening with a sheen of sweat. Even sewing seemed too strenuous a task in this infernal heat!
Vasilka made her way over and stood at a polite distance, as if she were greeting Abigail on her front porch and not just a bare patch of ground in front of her tent.
"Hello, Abigail," she said, adjusting the parcels within her arms. "Sorry to bother you, but do you know if the professor is here at the moment? I have those journals he requested, and I wanted to make sure he got them."