Hope shall fade
Author: wanderingsmith
jan 3, 2017
Summary: "I heard the voice."
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I ain't got no money, and
nobody'd be daft enough to pay me for this. As
it is thought, so let it be said; you make the
toys, I play with 'em..
AN: blame <a
href="http://wanderingsmithca.tumblr.com/post/155370586173/oh-hello-snapfic">this
photo sequence</a> by stiwfssr. *I* was
just scrolling through my dashboard avoiding
work.. and *it* went and grabbed my brain!!
The opinions spoken herein are those of the
characters, not the writer.
They weren't feeling cheerful.
"I heard the voice." (He was barely aware of the
present. As lost in the past as if it was a year
ago, or 3 or 10. These moments were all the same;
each time new with no memory of having been
before.)
"Goody..." (He *knew* he couldn't reason him out..
he *did*. But he could *never* help trying. Never
quite stop seeing the -clear-minded, well-read,
able to reason the squirrels out of the trees- man
that he loved. Even when it was the broken piece
of his soul that were in front of him.)
"Billy, I heard it." (Automatic annoyance at being
disbelieved always came with his certainty. Though
he didn't remember this.)
(Billy stared, somewhere between anger and
pleading, wanting so hard to see *Goody* reappear
in those eyes.)
"I pull that trigger in anger..." (If I can just
explain, he'll understand! Of course he will.
Billy knows. Billy loves me. He understands...)
(Once the attempts at reason started he knew he'd
lost. He made the mistake of trying to reason
back, years ago. Over and over. It never worked.
It made it worse after. It broke his heart. He
stayed because this WASN'T all the time. It WOULD
pass. But he'd long since learned: a few drinks
helped Goody breathe through his pain. A few
breaths of smoke helped *him* breathe through
*his* pain.)
"I heard it." (Please Billy. I... I'm not... You
gotta...)
(He knew it hurt Goody that he didn't believe him.
But he'd also tried that. Tried humouring every
word that wasn't quite so completely wrong... but
it didn't 'help'. The spell lasted what it lasted.
And Billy's words hardly seemed to even make him
feel better even at the time! Just breathe, Billy.
Stay calm and breathe. It was all he could do. For
either of them.)
(I know they're here. I'm so damn tired, dammit.
Why...)
(Was a time he'd sneered at the drunks he'd seen
drown themselves every night at a saloon when he
stayed in one place long enough. Sneered at their
weakness and thought himself so much more
toughened by the cards men like them had dealt
him. That he could suffer pain and insult and
hunger and still stand un-aided. Moments like
these, nowdays, when that first stinging layer of
smoke immediately eased the cramping pain in his
chest, he always thought of those men, and sent
them a silent apology for judging what sent them
looking for respite.)
(So much better, that breath without what he could
admit, at this moment, was *fear*. Fear he would
one day not be strong enough. Not strong enough to
stay, to stand. Not strong enough to be there for
Goody when he was needed. But not today. Flipping
that cigarette and using a bare twitch to offer it
to the lost man besides him was as much a reflex
as grabbing and flipping one of his blades to
silently threaten fools. A silent offering that
skipped any judgement and bypassed any discussion.
Reaching for the man inside, in pain and not
actually wanting to remain lost; Billy's lost
love.)
(What was he going to do. It was going to come for
him. But if Billy stayed. Gods, how could he...
Aw, Billy... Seeing that smoke held out from those
so very familiar fingers. Fine and skilled and so
very quick most of the time. Aw but he knew they
felt so... so very peace-inducing, when they
touched him as he fought sleep. He shouldn't take
the smoke. He shouldn't. Didn't deserve the ease
when so many- But he couldn't help it. It hurt to
breathe. And Billy... aw damn my eyes; my
Billy...)
(Sometimes, some bad times, he didn't accept the
cigarette. He wasn't sure, on days when he was
tired, if he'd have the courage to make the offer
without the smoke buffering him.) "They're just
dreams, Goody." (We'll get through this, Goody. We
*will*. There'd been some really bad times when he
got lost enough to suspect Billy. A *very* few
where the terror still came out the way it had
when they were still very new travelling
companions. The outgoing southerner changing to a
hissing, snarling creature on waking in a noisy
summer wood. Pupils wide and black with terrible
fear, twisted into unknowing hatred and wild
anger. Bright smile mangled into spitting snarling
pointed teeth. ..But other times. Other times..
Familiar, loving, fingers would touch his, so
gently, before reaching for the roll-up. He could
almost hear Goody's husky voice in his hear, then,
rasping bit of love poems, one *syllable* at a
time, slow and sweet as the molasses he still
enjoyed. Tenderest odes to the damnedest parts of
Billy's so ordinary self.)
(Dreams... But they weren't. It was real.. It..
had been. He was sure. He remembered. This pain
was real! But Billy's rolled cigarettes felt so
familiar. Completely different from the sloppy
things he and the boys exchanged- oh god, they're
dead! I should have.. I shouldn't have.. God help
me; Billy... When that first breath hit, for
timeless moments, all was rootless fog. On the
exhale, he felt one of Billy's knuckleduster
against his knee. The others around them were
still hazy, but he'd know Billy's gentle touch
anywhere. Another shaky breath and the fog started
to lift. Maybe they *were* dreams. But his madness
was no dream. He would truly fail Billy, one day.
But maybe not tonight. He could breathe. For now.
His eyes were still whole, his lungs still pushed
air. He could bear to smile for the man who'd
stood with him through so much. Could help him
stand another day at Goody's pitiful side. He
could. They could.)
Back to Fanfic
Back to The Canadian
Wanderer's homepage >