i got a war in my mind

I’m sorry to do this, but I have decided to go on hiatus until sometime mid-July. Work is just really busy/draining right now, and every day I come home with hardly any energy for writing or socializing. I keep forcing myself to sit and look at all my drafts, hoping the sight of them will trigger some kind of inspiration, but right now I am just too tired and unmotivated to work through them. I hate to keep people waiting, but I also don’t want to crank out low-quality writing, and frankly I have enough real life stuff on my plate (work, helping my friend plan her wedding, organizing my sister’s baby shower, etc.). 

Once the school year is over and I’ve had a chance to get my shit together, I should be refreshed enough to come back and give my replies the attention they deserve. Thanks as always for your patience and understanding! 

@anarchywithin

It’s what she paid him for, isn’t it?

The thought makes a home at the back of her brain, sequestering space to properly fester for the days yet to come. The concept was easy to accept, in theory: she gave men lots of money to stand between her and the knife that perpetually hung over her head. In theory, she could take it, had known nothing else since her earliest memories.

In practice, it was markedly different.

Maybe that’s why his blood sets her teeth on edge. It was the price he paid for this job, a willing reminder that he’d protect her whatever the cost. She paid him to do this, paid him very well, but as he winces and groans and tries to stand up, no amount of money seems like enough. For one dark moment, in the heat of things, Daenerys was almost certain he would die — how not, with the odds stacked against him? Hands gripped at her flesh, cut into her arm, but right then, the only pain she felt was her heart.

The sour mood has lingered. She’s antsy, filled with remnants of unspent adrenaline, unable to bear looking over at him. Unable to look away.

“Someone in particular?” Her tone is derisive, though not at him. “Who knows. The Greyjoys? The Lannisters?” They all had the money. “Or that asshole Robert Baratheon.” Her look darkens, drops to the man at Sawyer’s feet. Far from the disinterest he’s showing the man, Dany looks all too eager in the man. “It wouldn’t be the first time he’d tried something.”

No, it wouldn’t be the first time Baratheon tried to take the young heiress out of play. The two families seemed pitted against each other in a feud that seemed to go well beyond business, and he certainly stood to gain the most by eliminating Daenerys. But this attack was bold; an attempted kidnapping in broad daylight, on a busy freeway? That was considerably less subtle than Robert usually operated. For one, he wasn’t likely to trouble himself by kidnapping her. Prisoners and hostages are risky, and require a certain amount of care. Not something the Baratheon patriarch is known for. He’d most likely try to have her killed in a way that looked like a tragic accident. 

Sawyer’s frown deepened. It didn’t sound like Lannister work either, though they could certainly afford a team of this calibre. They were even more careful than Robert, not to mention pragmatic. The Targaryan company was their enemy, not merely its CEO. Taking her out of the picture would do little to level the playing field, as someone would step in almost immediately to take her place. At best it might screw with the company’s stocks for a time, but they would soon recover and once again dominate the market. The Lannisters knew better to risk a legal conviction over something so tenuous. They Greyjoys were crazy and desperate enough, in his mind, to try such a ploy, but they didn’t have the means or wherewithal to acquire professionals like this.

Shaking his head a little -- and wincing at the twinge of pain flaring through his neck -- Sawyer watched the man on the ground being hauled to his feet and shoved roughly into a police cruiser. No doubt he and Dany would be expected to follow the convoy down to the station, where they could go over the attack in more detail. He didn’t look forward to hours yet of tedious play-by-plays and cross examinations, but he also knew they were critically important to making sure something like this doesn’t happen again. Whoever is behind the attack will likely not stop at the first sign of failure. 

The thought earned another paranoid, sweeping glance around their surroundings. A forest of skyscrapers, rivers of road interlacing sinuously between them, and countless places for the enemy to hide. 

               ❛   shit,   ❜   the sniper mumbles to herself,   adrenaline   pumping through   her veins   &   causing her to shake.   it was   naive hope   to think that a simple supply run would   turn out easy   ;   nothing   ever   went in   her favor.   ❛   i’m   out of ammo,   sawyer.   we need to get inside.   LIKE NOW   !!   ❜

@anarchywithin,   ♡   !!

She’s not wrong (she rarely is), but another desperate glance at their surroundings reminds him once again how few options they have. It’s main street, in the ruins of a quiet little tourist town that was in its off season when the dead first arose, abandoned with no security measures in place. That means huge glass windows and displays, which would collapse like cobwebs under the mob bearing down on them. Quaint, squat little buildings with no high ground, backed by dead-end alleys. 

He’s been in situations like this enough by now that one would think he’d be better at avoiding such traps. Desperate times.

His own ammo reserves have all but dwindled. Three left in the clip (one in the chamber), and two more floating somewhere in his back pocket. He curses under his breath and stuffs them mindlessly into the magazine with a ‘click’ that is almost comforting. Almost, except for the fact that his bullets are outnumbered by at least fifteen to one, soon to be more after all the racket they made fending off the first wave. The dead are predictable, if nothing else. 

@anarchywithin

Time is a truly malleable thing. It warps and stretches, making weeks feel like years, hours like days. It’s no surprise, then, that the length of time they’ve been out on the road seems to elude her when she tries to keep track. Forty nine days? Maybe more than two months?

She starts keep score on the hilt of a knife, scratching tally marks deep into the wood.

There are some days, though — a handful of them stand out against the gray, splotches of color in her mind’s eye. Tongues of black smoke in the rear view mirror as they left the quarantine center behind. The first victim she’d seen, blank eyed and gray, and the way his bones had sounded as they caved in. The warmth of strong hands set at her hips, her lips laced with whiskey as they sought his.

It’s the last memory which outshines the rest, but that’s the one Dany wants most to forget. Needs to, really, because there’s no place for soft sentiment when every day was a war to survive. So what that she could barely look at his lips without feeling their phantom touch on her own? So what that she’d slept the soundest — felt so safe — the night she had fallen asleep on his chest? Nothing had changed between them. Nothing could. And if anything, Sawyer felt farther away.

Or maybe she was the one pushing him. It’s always hard to tell.

This morning’s no different. It’s been almost three weeks since that fateful night, and neither of them has talked about it. As if speaking aloud meant it’d really happened, and biting back words could keep the truth at bay. Dany comes down the hall quietly, familiar in the new house they’ve just moved to, shifting as ever from place to place. It’s a bright morning — peaceful, really — and the smell of Sawyer cooking at the fireplace almost whets her appetite. Almost.

She’d barely made it past the door before she’s turning on her heel again, stomach convulsing violently. It’s a good thing she did know this new house so well; Dany slams the door into the bathroom wall, hands bracing on each side of the sink. For the second morning in a row, Dany thinks she’ll just skip breakfast instead.

Sawyer has always found comfort in routine. 

Side effect of a chaotic mind; you seek external order, the calming familiar. When every hour of the day is structured and organized just so, there’s no time to let the past or future haunt you. Even when that routine is broken, for whatever reason, the framework is so deeply entrenched that you find ways to adapt in order to maintain it. You absorb the disruption, and normalcy prevails. It has to, or you go insane. 

So, this is normal now. Hiding out in some abandoned house, stepping over the bones of an old world that doesn’t exist anymore and may never again. Kicking in doors, jimmying windows open, pillaging pantries and cupboards, sleeping with a weapon in hand or close enough to count -- assuming you can sleep at all -- and not even taking comfort in the sunrise because it doesn’t mean the nightmare is over. 

If nothing else, Sawyer’s mind and hands are too busy to do much other than focus on immediate needs. They’re hungry, so he finds food. They’re cold and tired, so they find shelter. They’re surrounded, he hacks and carves a clear path for them to escape. It’s an endless, reactive cycle, but so far they’ve managed to keep their heads above water -- barely -- and right now that’s all anyone can hope for. There’s no room to fret and wonder and rage at their circumstances. He has given up, at least for the time being, on ever understanding how this scourge came about, or how many lives have been lost, or whether or not society will ever get back up on its feet. None of that is certain. 

But what is certain is that he needs to keep Daenerys safe. Not because she was his boss in a former life, and his whole world revolved around keeping her out of harm’s way for exorbitant amounts of money. Not because she was the only friend he had left that was still alive, as far as he knew, and indeed, the only family. Not even because of what happened between them a few weeks ago, when she had just enough to drink that crawling into bed with him seemed like a good idea (and he was too weak to stop it, he wanted it, he wanted her, God help him); though he would be lying if he said that didn’t mean anything to him. If he could talk about it at all, which he can’t, because she won’t, and if she wants to pretend like it didn’t happen, he can pretend too. 

He just...he doesn’t have a choice. It’s not even a discussion, really. She comes first. Because if he loses her, he will lose his way, and the tenuous illusion of control he feels, his very purpose, will be irrevocably shattered. And whatever animal instinct he has for self-preservation is almost entirely built on the fear of abandoning her out here, alone. The thought alone is enough to make cold sweat prickle his skin sometimes, when it’s quiet and still enough for his thoughts to wander down such paths. He doesn’t know where safe is, if anywhere, but he already knows he’ll die trying to get her there. 

The smell of cooking eggs jerks his focus back to the present; it rarely strays far. He stirs the contents of the pan popping and sizzling over the fire, a scramble of bird eggs (he has no idea what kind) seasoned with stale bacon bits he found in the kitchen and mixed with canned spinach. Believe it or not, it’s be the best meal either of them will have had in weeks. Given the questionable nature of the the food they’ve been getting by on, it’s no surprise Dany is sick again this morning. She tried to hide it yesterday, so he didn’t press her. But this being day two, he figures he should probably say something about it. 

She made her way into the living room, already heating up in the early morning sun. They’d shut all the windows, hoping to keep the smell of food contained as much as possible. He watched her peripherally for a moment, before risking a fuller glance and noting her queasy pallor. 

“Uh…” he stutters; chokes; clears his throat; all the while, his eyes wander away from the mechanic, finding his gaze a tad too scorching, a tad too real to meet – but then, Job reminds himself he has no right to feel unease, no right to feel like the victim of their circumstances – and forces himself to look back at Sawyer, if a tad timidly. He’s the one that’s gotten them to this point, after all – Job is. He’s the one who used his ability on the other man and then became as hysterical as a headless chicken when met with the consequences.

He crosses his arms over his chest; finds that to be defensive behavior as well and then forces himself to stop, a hand rising to scratch at the back of his own neck instead. He shifts his weight from one foot and the other trying to come up with the right words to say.

“Yeah – I didn’t, uh – didn’t actually come here for her. Or uh, well, I did – but not uh, exactly…”

It’s a game of advance and retreat as he keeps crossing and uncrossing his arms and looking to and from Sawyer. His silent gesture that they step outside seems to have gone by either ignored or unnoticed and suppose there’s absolutely nothing that Job can do about it other than accept his fate and brave on with what he’d meant to tell Sawyer to begin with. Easier said than done, it would seem.

“I uh…” inhaling deeply, finally meeting the mechanic’s gaze again, finally letting his shoulders roll back, Job says, “I came to apologize for, uh – my behavior – at the hospital. It was… it was rude ‘n uncalled for. I panicked –” he pauses, chews on his bottom lip and shakes his head, “– what I’m trynna say is uh, there ain’t no excuse and – and I’m sorry.”

Sawyer knows this song and dance, having done it several times himself. The ducking eye contact, the shuffling feet and fidgeting hands, embarrassed discomfort...Job is trying to apologize. 

The ex-soldier watches and waits, his stiff expression relaxing incrementally. He can almost smile at the display, if not for the uncomfortable feeling of looking into a mirror of his past self. How many times had he come crawling back to Jess after a night of drinking -- or a particularly bad flashback -- with that same hand-dog look on his own face, stammering out an I’m sorry? Except he actually had shit worth apologizing for. He drank too much, refused to take his meds, lashed out; and struggled with an ability that he couldn’t explain, couldn’t control, where every time he touched her he could see himself through her eyes and all the shit she put up with from him. sending him spiralling even more down in a never-ending cycle of guilt and self-loathing. Until finally she’d had enough, and did what he had been too cowardly to do. Walk away. 

So he doesn’t smile, as precious as the gesture is with Job’s awkward, fumbling humility. Doesn’t want the boy to think he’s laughing at him, after all. But his gaze is softer, warmer, and before he knows it the incident is all but forgotten. He shakes his head a little, waving it off like an overly curious fly. “Nothing to apologize for,” he says reassuringly. “You were scared, confused. I probably would’ve done the same in your position.”

He hesitates, shrugging a bit sheepishly. “Maybe I came on a little too strong, you know? I mean I’ve...I’ve never met anyone else who was...different. Like me. Not that you’re like me, or anything, but...yeah. Guess I got kinda carried away by it all.” 

They make their way outside to the bike, gleaming under the flickering electric sign hanging over head. Sawyer fishes for the keys in his pocket and slaps them into Job’s awaiting hand. “Took care of a few extra odds and ends,” he explained. “Should hopefully ride a little smoother now.” 

Starter for @anarchywithin. 

         It was quiet but for the noise machine in the hallway. Out in the lobby, one could hear the faintest notes of “Tupelo Honey” playing from the reception desk. A bookcase on the far wall held titles on trauma, family, and self help organized by color in rainbow order. Next to the bookcase was a framed artist’s rendering of “shalom” in Hebrew lettering, and he may have noticed a mezzuzah on the door frame when he came in. Sadie was sitting in what looked like a well-loved office chair, the fake leather worn in some areas, but the effect wasn’t so much shabby as it was comfortable looking. Like a pair of favorite jeans. She had one leg crossed over the other and a pink notepad balanced on the top leg, pen poised in her hand as she waited for Sawyer to settle in.

         She offered a smile that she hoped was both comforting and encouraging, hazel eyes bright with optimism. “So,” she began, “what brings you here? What is it you’d like to work on?” Some people didn’t really know the answer, but that was alright.

“I, uh...”

The half hour he spent in the waiting room was largely dedicated to rehearsing what he was going to say when she inevitably asked the question, what brings you here?. Now that he was here, though, sitting across from this woman smiling so kindly at him from her unpretentiously worn out leather chair, Sawyer found his mind had gone utterly blank. It didn’t help that she was prettier than he expected, with an inherently approachable air that set her apart from the tired, jaded doctors he’d spoken with in the past; but that wasn’t a problem so much as a pleasant surprise. 

She must have his file from the VA hospital, surely. His last shrink would have sent the documents over by now, unless the administration was still as backlogged and inept as it was the last time he tried to get help. Whether she had a lot of experience with soldiers or not, no doubt she figured there were only so many reasons why an ex-Delta Force operative would be perched stiffly on her couch. Still; it made sense that she’d want him to speak for himself. Her job was to dissect his words and find the unspoken ones underneath, though what she was bound to dig up, Sawyer couldn’t say. He was afraid to speculate.

He closed his mouth for a moment, frowning a little before clearing his throat. “I was...I guess I’m just trying to make some changes in my life. Career-wise, mostly. I’d, um, I’ve decided I want to join law enforcement -- specifically the Federal Marshals.” 

The decision wasn’t long in his mind. It had come to him suddenly, out of the blue, when a friend mentioned it might suit him. He had certainly learned a lot about tracking targets on the run while overseas, having apprehended more than his fair share of Taliban agents in some of the most remote and hostile environments imaginable. Except this time finding them meant handing them over to the law, rather than torturing them for intel and then dumping their bodies out in the foothills. Then lying about it.

Hey babes,

I’m alive! Just dealing with some really long, exhausting days at work that are leaving me drained. I should have more energy to work on replies and answer messages this weekend. Thanks as always for your patience <3.

SO UH, I LIED. KIND OF. Turns out my weekend was super busy and I had ZERO TIME to sit down and write/reply. My car’s transmission finally shit itself, along with a few ignition coils, so I had to scurry in search of a new vehicle in time for the work week because lol imagine being a substitute teacher without a car. IT WAS VERY INCONVENIENT AND STRESSFUL AND I HAD TO RECRUIT FRIENDS/FAMILY TO LET ME BORROW THEIR CARS FOR A FEW DAYS WHILE I SCOURED THE REGION FOR A SUITABLE REPLACEMENT. I managed to find one this afternoon, thank God, and am now driving a lovely little 2006 Toyota Matrix thanks to a loan from the Bank of Mom & Dad (I can’t help that their interest rates are so damn reasonable).

Job does not agree to receive visitors the next day. Not the day after that, either, or the day after that one, or the day after that one. By the end of the week, he’s already been discharged – suspiciously quick for a month-long coma patient, perhaps – but the varying nurses all claim their hands are tied. No information can be given to anyone who isn’t the boy’s immediate family and Sawyer isn’t even so much as a friend – though suppose they don’t exactly know that either.

He can and should be a hundred miles away by now; if he knows what’s good for him; if he wants to live. But Job has almost always favored the notions of his heart to reason and in his heart of hearts, he knows he cannot leave yet. Besides – he can’t really leave without Faith, anyway.

So when he shows his face at the autoshop again, it is with great shame. He waits until it’s close to closing hours before stepping up to the joint, as not to cause a scene. He asks around quietly, as though he hasn’t the right, as though he dare not disturb the universe (T.S. Eliot, The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock, he’ll tell you without missing a beat) – until he is finally directed towards the man he’s been looking for. He pauses somewhere in the corner of Sawyer’s field of vision, quiet until the mechanic looks up and Job can only barely bring himself to meet his gaze, and gestures for him to join him outside, where they wouldn’t be so easily heard by the other employees of the garage.

After being turned away a second time at the hospital, Sawyer takes the hint and stops trying. 

Nearly a week passes. He tries not to notice, throwing himself instead into extra shifts at the garage and refusing to acknowledge the unease constantly brewing in his gut. Stop worrying, he keeps telling himself. Stop worrying. Stop. WORRYING. 

It’s really none of his business, this whole thing. Honestly, what did he think was going to come out of it? He and his new best friend Job riding off into the sunset together, ride or die like Thelma and Louise? Standing shoulder to shoulder against that...thing pretending to be a priest? He can almost laugh at himself for being so stupid. For picking up on a thin thread of kinship, born entirely out of the fact that they both have weird abilities, and blindly running with it. The accident on the freeway had been just that, an accident; not fate, not divine providence, not some sign from above that the two of them were supposed to...what? Team up? Join forces? Please.

As far as anyone need know, Sawyer did his part in getting Job to the hospital. He owes the boy no more than that, and has already gone above and beyond with the motorcycle. He replaced the side cover as promised, and then found excuses to provide other minor tuneups here and there. Small things, hardly enough to be noticeable, but maybe enough to squeeze a couple more useful years out of it. Assuming, that is, that Job plans on showing his face around here to collect it. He might just as easily abandon it in Sawyer’s care rather than face him again.

The thought does not, Sawyer tells himself, sting at all. Nope. It would be for the best, really, if he were to never see the boy agai -- shit.

He pulls up short, disproportionately surprised to see Job standing there, looking at him like a shamefaced schoolboy awaiting punishment for breaking a window. The mechanic blinks at him before drawing in a quick, fortifying breath and offering a shallow nod.