Chapter Text
The world was awash in slow-moving fog, the borders of his vision dark and his breaths short and sharp. The world outside the train doors rushed by, suddenly obscured by a figure that stood in the door and fired a pistol. He flinched with every shot, trying to protect his head as he ducked down low with his eyes squeezed shut. Over the rising rush of blood in his ears, he heard muffled shouts and the booming footsteps of people running across the carriage.
“What- do with-”
“Take- the boss-”
He was suddenly seized around his arms and yanked upright, his muscles taut in his panic of the world speeding back up. He tried to rip away from whatever was holding him, more hands were grabbing him, one at the back of his shirt and under his arm in an effort to lift him. His boots slipped on the floor as he thrashed.
“G-Get off me!” He gasped. “Tango! Help me!”
“I said: hold still!” A man growled before he was struck, pain radiating out from his jaw.
His whole body briefly went slack in shock, enough time for the two people on either side of him to pull him out of the cell and towards the door between carriages. Dark spots danced in his vision as he blinked in a daze, panic spiking as he saw the open doors and the foot-wide gap between the cars.
“T-Tango!” He called, grabbing the door frame and trying to brace himself with the one hand he'd wriggled free of the tight grip that held him.
“Don’t be stupid,” was snarled in his ear, his hand ripped from the door frame. He felt like a fawn on a frozen lake with how he skated helplessly towards the gap, a terrified gasp escaping him as one man jumped with him across the gap and pushed him through the open door. He stumbled but managed to catch himself, only for a hand to grab the back of his shirt and once again usher him forward down the narrow dark wood-paneled hallway of the passenger car. There was blue patterned carpet under them that muffled their booted steps, passing by open wooden doors to compartments where plush seating and tables resided. One door looked to be splintered around the handle as though someone had to shoulder it open. He spotted a man closing a heavy window inside one of the cabins, a hastily abandoned card game on the table that he leaned over.
He's coming back. He- He didn't…
He couldn't make himself say it.
He was forced to jump twice more, pushed and pulled through another passenger car and a more open supply car filled with boxes and barrels and crates, before being thrown across the gap into a dining car. He landed heavily onto the carpet in front of a line of stools bordering a lacquered wood bar. Several pairs of legs were in his field of view as he picked his head up, trying to get his arms under him.
“Taking him in?” A voice from behind the bar questioned.
“Yeah, dun ‘oh what else to do with ‘em.”
“Aight, well know that he’s ain't happy.”
He? Who isn't happy?
His thoughts went unanswered as he was scooped up off the floor and made to stand again. He was marched down the long hall in between fancy seating and tables that could seat four, partially eaten plates and spilled glasses by a littering of spent bullet casings on the surfaces. Glares and sneers were leveled at him as Jimmy was dragged past people reloading weapons or staring out the windows at the horizon. Was Tango out there? He had to just be looping around, right?
Closer and closer came the door at the end of the carriage and he felt an overwhelming sense of dread with every step forward. He couldn’t help but fight against his captors, digging his heels in futilely.
“No!” he cried.
“Walk, dammit!”
He was shoved hard in the back, making him stumble and hit his head into the carriage door. His forehead smarted sharply as he collided and when his hand touched it, he pulled away to see blood on his fingertips. Before he could react, his wrist was caught and he screamed as pain lanced up his arm. His captor swore and dropped him, quickly seizing his arm again and pulling the door open. Jimmy barely jumped in time to the narrow metal gangway that rattled and shook under them as the train sailed along the tracks. The skinny goon on his other side jumped across and crowded past him to pound on a heavy armoured door. A narrow slot in the door slid open and a pair of eyes appeared, narrowing before the slot was closed again.
The wind whistled and Jimmy swore the only thing keeping him upright was the person holding onto him. He caught himself staring out to the side, past the burly goon holding him and searching the rolling landscape for people on horses. He stifled a sob when all he saw was grass and trees.
The scenery flew by, the dying light of the day casting harsh shadows on the face of the moustached man that stepped back to allow the door to open. The skinny guard's poncho caught the wind as he reached back to yank Jimmy forwards and into the carriage.
The sound of the wind was cut almost instantly, replaced by soft classical music coming from a gramophone in the far corner. The heavy door was sealed behind the three newcomers with a final ka-thunk.
The interior was lavish with patterned carpets of pearl and blue, finely crafted cabinetry lining the walls of the open space. Thick plated iron were in the place of windows, the center with a thin slit allowing in red sunlight that flickered as the train passed by trees. Subtly patterned curtains bordered the windows along the varnished wood paneled walls. Trains were normally built with the mindset of every inch mattered for functionality, but one could be fooled into thinking they were in a rich city bankers office. A large studded leather couch was against the wall to the left, and another further up the car backed against a wall by an unassuming door. There was a cabinet by the far couch with several crystal decanters that twinkled in the lamp light, the soft tinkle of the glass barely audible as the train glided onwards. Onwards, and further and further from salvation… closer and closer to his demise. Because that was what was going to happen, right?
No. Tango will come.
…Right?
The theme of large furniture continued, a magnificent bookcase filled to the brim with hardcover books and intricate bookends to save space for the odd trinket or fancy glass knicknack. A faux fireplace of all things was against the far wall, above which sat a larger than life portrait of a grey and white tabby cat sitting regally upon a purple cushion, green eyes half lidded and staring off to the left. In the center of the room however, was a massive mahogany desk.
Behind which, sat Scar.
Scattered writing implements were on the desk before him, strewn about as though put down in a hurry, and an ornate pistol laid down on top of the pile. The man himself sat forward in his chair, elbows leaning on the desk with his hand steepled in front of his mouth. His sharp eyes were locked on the three newcomers, particularly on Jimmy. His eyes narrowed slightly when no one else came through the door after them.
“I take it they escaped?”
The burly man on his right nodded with a gulp. “Yes, sir.”
“And Jimmy here is the only one left?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The Boomers strike again,” Scar huffed a humourless laugh as he shook his head.
The door at the back was suddenly thrown open, an enraged figure with sandy hair and wild eyes stormed through the car with a revolver in hand.
“Scar, stop the train and let me have a hor-” Grian stopped in his tracks as he clocked him. “Jimmy?”
A chill ran up his spine, the air catching in his throat as his blood ran cold. His body locked up, every muscle taut and screaming at him to run, but he was frozen. Wide dark eyes took him in, surprise and… something else lingering at the edges. Relief?
Run. Why aren’t you running??
Grian’s previously agitated stance calmed, his shoulders dropping as he took a cautious step towards Jimmy. Dark spots creeping in around his vision reminded him to breathe, but his lungs refused to draw in full breaths, fear clawing a tight grip on his chest.
It was like they’d never parted. He looked the same. For only a year and miles away from where he’d last seen him, properly that was. Properly, before he knew what he was truly capable of. Sandy hair that was longer and fell over his forehead, more freckles no doubt from the desert sun. Blue soldier's uniforms replaced by the gang garb of a tan poncho that was thrown back over his shoulders.
The same dark eyes that haunted him.
“You’re here,” Grian’s eyes never left him, like a bird of prey who had spotted a mouse. A soft smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes revealed a hint of teeth behind pink lips.
Then something shifted. Grian’s eye flicked across Jimmy’s face as if he was seeing him for the first time, and the smile was gone, replaced with a knitted brow and a frown. Quick steps that were muted by the carpet below had him take a startled breath, body still powerless to move away. Grian’s hand rose to his face, hovering there, uncertain as his eyes flicked rapidly over the blood that still spattered Jimmy’s face. Then, upwards at where pain still radiated over his eyebrow. Jimmy flinched when Grian finally touched him, oh so gently grazing his finger tips over his jaw, but it felt like a hot poker.
He couldn’t look away, afraid that if he closed his eyes, he’d miss the strike towards his throat. But instead, Grian’s eyes softened as he met his gaze once more.
“Who did this to you?”
Those words. Those words had been what started it all, didn’t they? Said with such care, the ones he’d once misread as concern…
He didn’t even mean to. He didn’t mean to glance subtly to his right, where the burly goon who’d spoken to Scar was standing. The one who had pushed him into the glass door.
The twitch of Grian's eye was the only warning before he was on the gang member, driving first a fist into his stomach, then a knee up into his nose as the man doubled over. The winded grunt and the crunch of his nose made Jimmy reel back, his back hitting the bookcase behind him as his hands came up to shield his face. Grian was a good head shorter than the man now on the floor, but it mattered not as Grian harshly removed the knife from the goon’s neck with a wet squelch. Pink bubbles gathered where air hissed out of the wound, likely having hit the man’s airway in the savage stab wound.
The other guard that had held him was stepping back in his own shock. Jimmy couldn’t rip his eyes away from the gurgling man on the floor as a pool of deep red grew outwards in a mockery of a halo. The skinny man had raised a pistol with a shaky hand towards Grian.
Grian stood and leveled an icy look at the other goon.
“On the carpet, Grian? Really?” Scar tsk ed. “I had that imported last time we were in Boatem.”
“You get to tell the others,” Grian ignored him and took a threatening step forward, his ear alongside the iron pistol. The man leaned away as if he was frozen to the spot, wide eyes watching as Grian slowly reached up and pulled it from a yielding hand. “ No one touches Jimmy.”
The pistol was thrown across the room with a clatter.
Jimmy’s gaze floated down to the blade still clutched in Grian’s grip, warm red collected at the tip and dripping down to soak into the blue carpet. He couldn’t rip his eyes away, fixated on the way the blood shone in the yellow lamplight. There was a trail of dark red drops, all leading back to the slowly growing maroon puddle beneath the fallen gang member.
I’m next, aren’t I?
The floor was rushing to meet him as his eyes rolled back.
⋆⭒˚｡⋆ 𓆈Ψ𐚁 ˚｡⋆
A fog clears from his vision like morning sun thawing a frosty windowpane. Sheets and comfy pillow under his head, and the familiar chair and stacked crates that held Tango’s clothes in front of a canvas wall. Recognition sparked and he rolled over in bed, a breathy chuckle meeting him as a strong arm pulled him in.
“Morning, love,” Tango leaned forward and tucked his head into Jimmy’s neck, trailing kisses along his collarbone.
Jimmy gasped and wrapped his arms around the man, drawing more chuckles as Tango pulled his head up to save from being trapped. He brought his hand to Tango’s jaw, gently cupping his chin and searching his face. Dark brown eyes gazed softly back at him, a thumb rubbing over blonde stubble that hadn’t been shaved in a few days.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Tango asked, his hand coming up to push Jimmy’s hair back and scratch gently at his nape.
“You,” he replied, relishing in the touch that he missed, craved. “You’re here.”
“I-”
The sound of ripping canvas startled them both, Jimmy rolling over in a flash to see red and silver blades slicing through the tent wall like the claws of a great creature, blood seeping from the tears. He gasped and Tango was scrambling over him to stand with a swear on his breath.
Before he could unfreeze, a giant silver smile appeared through the tatters of the wall, sharp teeth flashing before the face lowered and a single black eye looked in, blinking before the edge of the smile seemed to shine brighter.
“Jimmy!” Tango outstretched his hand towards him. “Come on!”
Jimmy reached out for him from the bed, fingertips about to touch when a great hand reached through the ruined wall and wrapped around his body, hoisting him through the tent's ceiling and high into the air. The giant fingers held him tightly in their grasp, squeezing his body as his stomach swooped from the rush of movement. The world around them was dark, the sky a moonless shadow. Movement across from alerted him to Tango being held in another fist, one arm trapped in between two giant fingers as he flailed and clawed at what held him.
“Jimmy!”
“Tango!” He yelped back. He had no weapons, the fingers were getting tighter, his chest being squeezed and crushed. He let out a whimper as he pushed and pounded his fists into the fleshy digits.
A cold wind blew against his face, a coppery metallic scent making his nose wrinkle. Something moved through the darkness in his peripherals like a snake sliding through shallow water. The copper scent grew stronger when something appeared from below in a puff of black smoke, a head with sandy hair marred with dripping red, and a set of black eyes that stared down at them like prey. The face swayed back and forth, eyes rolling towards Tango and the great head smiled. Sharp teeth parted and Tango was thrown into the wide maw that snapped shut with a spray of blood.
“NOOO!” Jimmy wailed, his throat raw and dry.
The eyes rolled over to him then and Grian grinned at him.
“Did you think you could escape me?”
He startles awake, tightly turning around from his prone position to see that Tango was nowhere in sight, but also no Grian either. He panted frantically as his heart raced, hand clawing into something soft below him as he fought to ground himself.
He was in a bedroom, lavishly decorated just like Scar's office and atop a comfortable bed that took up most of the small room. Beautifully painted landscapes were in frames on any stretch of wall large enough for them, delicate carved frames surrounding them. He could still feel the train moving, his body being rocked back and forth as he blearily gazed around.
There was a small pitcher of water and a glass on the bedside table and he sat up, one hand shakily going to his head as he hissed at the headache starting to pound. He skipped the glass altogether and grabbed the pitcher, drinking heavily before stopping himself. He was going to make himself sick if he drank too quickly, but his throat was drier than a desert. He clutched the metal vessel and squeezed his eyes shut as he curled forward over his lap.
He felt lightheaded and heavy all at once, his vision struggling to remain in focus as he sat and breathed. His stomach roiled with hunger and nerves, and now a fresh helping of water that sat heavily. It took him a moment to realise that he really hadn't had much to eat or drink in between his late night escape from the Boomers, and being captured by the Desert Gang. Whilst he'd been in irons and his mind that had been so frayed, his hunger was easy to ignore in favour of focusing on survival. They were afforded a few mouthfuls of mush each whilst in the ‘care’ of Pearl and her lot, and small sips of tepid water from the canteen they threw into the wagon each day.
He longed for a hearty stew, or soup, or Skizz's seasoned potatoes that had grown on him while he'd been with the Boomers.
Thinking of food just made his stomach grumble loudly, his hand pressing to his stomach with a wince. The expression pulled at his eyebrow with a sting and reached up to touch it, only to feel a thin bandage wrapped around his head. Looking down, his wrist was also wrapped in new bright white bandaging.
His upper arms were covered in ugly hand-shaped bruises, the exposed skin clean and free of dirt. He realised his filthy clothes had been replaced by fresh trousers and a white undershirt, but his boots were nowhere to be seen.
He'd been treated and dressed. But by who? Did Grian do this? Even the scratches on his arms from falling in that thorn bush by the river had a thin layer of salve covering the healing scabs.
He felt tired, yet so painfully awake. His headache wasn't abating, and it hurt to think too hard. He reached into the wide top of the pitcher and wet his non-bandaged hand, bringing it to press against his forehead in some semblance of relief.
The door creaked open slightly, making him gasp sharply as a sliver of light spread across the floor and onto the bed. He pulled his legs up to avoid it as if it would burn him. The sound of soft tinny piano from a record was only just audible. The hand on the door knob paused when a voice called from further away.
“Grian.”
That sounded like Scar. The hand on the door knob clenched before letting it go, leaving the door slightly ajar. The shadows cast on the wall from a lamp let him see that Grian turned back towards Scar.
“What.”
“You said he was your partner,” Scar sounded… not quite accusatory.
“He is,” Grian replied levelly, the same kind of quick response you would give a sergeant.
“Then why is he afraid of you?”
The shadows drew further from the door, Grian's silhouette taking a step closer to Scar. “He's confused,” Grian said. “That gang he was with put ideas in his head. He just needs to remember who his real friends are.”
“Grian, you're not telling me everything,” Scar was standing now, his shadow a half head taller than Grian.
Grian took a step forward to meet him. “I'm telling you everything you need to know.” Grian stepped closer again, Jimmy's brow knitting in confusion as he watched the shorter shadow reach carefully upwards and pull the other shadow's head down, their dark forms meeting with the sound of soft kissing.
His stomach dropped ten stories. He wasn’t seeing this right now. Jimmy's hand covered his mouth, half in shock, and the other half to stop from making any noise that would alert them.
T-They're lovers?
He didn't have long to process the shock before the figures parted and soft footfalls started towards the door again.
Panic started to rise again. What should he do? Try to run past? Pretend to still be asleep and hope they'll leave him alone? Was there something he could use to defend himself?
He was frozen in indecision as once again a hand took hold of the door knob and gently pushed, Grian's face peering in as if to gage if Jimmy was awake.
All he could do was stare back with wide eyes, still clutching the water jug to his chest.
Grian smiled and slipped into the room like a doctor checking on a patient, his grin almost smug.
“Hi, Tim.”
After so long seeing him as only a figment of nightmares, it was strange to see him so… real. The poncho was off, just rolled shirtsleeves and an open crimson vest over grey slacks and boots, and not a speck of blood on him. His eyes were glittering with the same spark they always did when he was up to no good.
He wished he was hallucinating.
Despite his silence, Grian pressed on as he'd had a whole conversation.
“I'm glad you're awake, you took a nasty spill.”
Spill? You spilled someone's blood.
Right in front of him. Nothing to hide behind, no ambiguity to it. Jimmy had watched as the knife had-
He curled further over the water pitcher, his stomach lurching dangerously and sour bile starting to well in his mouth. He took a breath, pushing down the urge to vomit. Instead, he took a desperate sip of water and returned to clutching the jug to his chest like a lifeline.
Grian saw his reaction and glided down to sit on the edge of the bed, hands hovering like he wanted to catch him if he passed out again. He shied back, running into the headboard. He wanted to get up, put the bed between them, but he feared if he moved too fast, he might pitch over.
“I tried my best with what I had,” Jimmy saw Grian gesture to his wrist. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
He quickly gave a short shake of his head. The thought of Grian’s hands touching him was making his skin crawl. He tried to be subtle in how he scanned the room, looking for something he could grab, but he didn’t see much other than a closed closet door and the paintings on the wall. The one window in the room had the same iron plating as he’d seen in Scar’s office, leading him to believe he was still in the same train car. Darkness was rushing by in the thin gap in the iron panels whilst the train rumbled along the tracks.
He jumped when the pitcher was plucked from his grasp, his flinch making some water slosh from the top. Grian gave him a gently admonishing look before pouring some of the water in the glass on the side table. With nothing else to hold now, to hide behind, he gathered his hands to his chest and cradled his now damp bandages.
“I was so scared that you were gone again,” Grian tried to reach out again but Jimmy leaned back further. “Those guys were bad news.”
“They're coming back,” Jimmy shook his head with a frown.
“Oh Tim,” Grian's face twisted in sympathy, now a mockery of how he would look when they were kids. “They left you.”
“No,” it came out as a whisper.
“I'm glad they did, really, they were poisoning you. Telling you lies.”
“Stop it.”
Grian sat back a bit and smiled like he hadn’t really heard him. “I won't leave you though, Jimmy. I follow you, remember? Anywhere.”
Anywhere. The word made him clench his jaw as his heart skipped a beat.
“You still like books, right?” Grian said hopefully, reaching behind him and drawing out two hardcovers. “I found a copy of your favourite, Anita of the Prairie, and I think you’ll like this one too.”
Grian had always been so supportive of everything he enjoyed, his keen eyes and ears always picking up on what Jimmy was interested in, often before Jimmy himself was aware of it. The numerous gifts he’d received from his friend over the years always had him wondering where he was getting the money, as their army pay was not all that much.
Anita of the Prairie … He hadn’t ever been able to find a copy this far west. The last worn copy he’d had was inside his trunk back in the barracks. One of the first stores he’d found that had sold books after he’d fled, the shopkeeper had boredly pointed to a small display of short novels. That’s where he’d found The Daring Adventures of Roy Kenenger.
He couldn’t help but recall the soft look Tango gave him when he’d handed him the second Daring Adventures book in the series. He didn’t even know there was a second one. He’d never been able to finish it, and how his heart had dropped when he realised he had lost it.
He must have looked disappointed because Grian’s smile faded. “You don’t like them?”
Jimmy picked at the edge of his bandage nervously, keeping his eyes downcast. The books were placed gently in front of him, the soft quilt dipping slightly under them. He blinked when he recognised the copy of Anita of the Prairie as a special edition.
It made him take a shuddering breath.
“I’ll just leave them here for you,” Grian returned his hands to his lap. “Scar has a whole library that you could look at if you wanted to.”
He remained silent, his mind wrapped in a fog of confusion. He wanted to get up and run, but where to? Every door was either locked or guarded, and the iron plates over the windows offered him no hope. He’d run from the Boomers, run from the possibility of ever ending up right where he was right now. And here he was. He’d run from one cage, and leapt right into another.
He'd come back for Tango, and it had all been for naught.
“Oh Tim, hey, don’t cry,” Grian soothed, a handkerchief appearing to dab under his eyes. “It’s okay, we’re back together now. Finally.”
Jimmy pulled away and scrubbed at his eyes himself. He didn’t realise tears had started to fall.
There had been a time where he couldn’t imagine Grian not being there, the boy turned man being his shadow at every stage in his life. Now, he could hardly look at him without his heart clenching in fear. How many times had he seen something odd and never thought ill of it, that it was just a quirk of Grian’s. How blind he’d been to never see the true side of his best friend.
“Just- Just let me go,” Jimmy cradled his wrapped hand to his chest, staring at the bedspread.
“Let you-?” Grian’s voice pitched before he forcefully took a breath. “Jim, you’re home now.”
He shook his head again, tears still persistently welling. “No.”
The room was caught in a tense silence that seemed to drag on, making Jimmy’s erratic breathing sound all the louder. His gaze darted back to Grian nervously in time to see his expression darken.
“I’ve searched for you for a year.”
I’ve run from you for a year. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, his heart and throat in a vice grip as he watched Grian’s mask fall.
“You don’t think I was always looking out for you?” Grian shifted in his seat as he tried to get Jimmy to look at him. “Those bullies back in school? Mrs Jones when she refused to pay us?”
“Mrs… From the corner store? But she went missing-” Jimmy shook his head slowly, his eyes widening. “Wait, Grian no, you didn’t…”
Grian just stared.
His hand flew to his agape mouth in shock. Oh, he felt sick.
“Why? Grian please , why did you hurt them?” he helplessly pleaded. “They didn't do anything!”
“They were getting between us, trying to keep you from me,” Grian’s face lightened a little, a tight lipped smile appearing. “Now we can be together again, best of friends forever.”
Flashes of all the times people had disappeared from their lives, either going missing, or growing apart after a sudden argument. How Grian had always been there to console him. The last time he saw Verna before she ran to start her shift at the hospital desk…
It was so easy to look back at what happened that night , his mind unable to make him forget, and see Grian for what he truly was. But, looking at him now, it was simply so easy to see the boy he grew up with. The boy who protected him, was his friend and companion for more of his life than without.
But gone was that boy.
“What about Verna?”
He dreaded the answer. Flashes of how he’d needed to scrub his boots for hours in a creek to rid the leather of her life blood.
“Urgh, she got in the way,” Grian rolled his eyes and Jimmy saw red. “I got rid of the people hurting you.”
“She never hurt me!” Jimmy cried out as he turned and braced a hand down beside him, trying to push himself back on the bed. “She was my friend!”
“I'm your friend, Jimmy, you didn't need her.”
“No!” he snarled. “You don't get to make that decision for me! You killed innocent people! Slaughtered them! I've been on the run for a year, fearing for my life and starving and scraping by.
“You ruined my life, Grian. And I can never forgive you.”
Grian just stared, his blank gaze unnerving. The sudden twitch in his eye was downright eerie on his otherwise still mask. Jimmy couldn’t help the fullbodied flinch when Grian suddenly stood, eyes ablaze before they quickly simmered, face back into a neutral mask once more.
“Then you will learn.”
And he turned on his heel and left, closing the door with a soft click that seemed to boom despite the light touch.
And he was left there. Alone and breathing hard and shaking, Grian's emotionless face burned into his vision.
He backed up, feeling blindly backwards for a wall or something to grip. He just- He'd just stood up to Grian. Oh god, what had he done?
He felt like he was barely tethered to the earth. He could still feel the clatter and rattle of the train moving, and he looked down at the carpet beside the bed to see red start to well up around the legs of the side table and the books that had fallen. Sticky red enveloped the hardcovers and he scrambled to the center of the bed, pulling his legs up to his chest as he fought to stay calm.
“I follow, remember? Anywhere.” The word echoed through his head as a chill spread down his spine.
Anywhere.