a reckoning begins.

the mention of a village chris knows sends his eyebrows skyward, causes something aching and familiar to coil in his chest. he doesn’t talk much of home for fear of having to admit he misses it.

         ‘ living, ’ he says. ‘ but only just. ’

        ‘ i know the feeling. ’ there’s an inside joke for the ages, eh? it aches in her chest, but at least it twists her smile in that sad kind of way you’d expect from the kind of woman he probably assumes she is. depressed at best, god knows what at worst.

poetry starters — @retributior​

               “ — if you don’t believe in god, then who are you talking to? ” nothin much accusatory in the way he says it. wyatt, he believes, but he got no faith, and that’s just as bad in most books.

        old habits die hard. kit might’ve lost her faith in the lord and all his angels-- dying, seeing the world beyond, that’s got a way of ruining some certain beliefs a woman might’ve had-- but sometimes talking helps you work things out. ain’t like skeeter’s a fair sounding board.  

rafferty knows he could stand to uncoil some  —  awareness isn’t the issue. if he could do anything about it, he’d have done something about it. in lieu of any behavior good and healthy, he overreacts, recognizes it in hindsight, shrinks with shame.

         ‘ i’m not, really. ’ wasn’t, at least, until recently. ‘ and what’s a painter without red? ’

         ‘ oh, no  —  christ, i thought it was blood. ’ he scratches at the spot on his arm until it peels before licking the pad of his thumb and scrubbing it clean. he’s gone visibly shaky from his fingers up. ‘ it’s paint. ’

@retributior,  sc.

uh i made a wild west tunes playlist and it’s over twelve hours long how are y’all

          “ ain’t nothin’ gonna kill me, kit, ” he smiles, taking her hand, pulling himself back to his feet, and dusting himself off. “ no drunks, no demons, no nothin’s. you don’t gotta worry about me. thank you, though. ”

        ‘ worry is a very strong word. ’ is it him she worries about or the idea of being stuck fighting bishop all by herself? these days, it’s hard to tell. still, skeeter’s in one piece, so she doesn’t have to think too hard about it all. 

                                              two mangy nails repeatedly scrape over skeitan’s forehead, drill heftily into the place where his brows would meet.     it describes a gesture of fake contemplation, ostensible and showy and with a little bit of taunt; some joke he doesn’t want to share, nothing she could ever have.               ‘  oh, the prettiest ones, they never stick,  ’                he sing-songs, features crinkling with pity,               ‘  for us ordinary mortals it’s better to not pay any attention to them at all.     so,     no,     lonely woman, the big, blond, funny-armed adonis?     we did not meet.  ‘

JAMESTOWN. accepting.

    no, she believes him. there is not a malicious bone in skeeter’s body, she reckons, at least not concerning herself, and they’re... friends. she supposes that’s the word. you call a man your brother enough and he saves your life enough, that is what you become. she doubts he’d utter a bad word against her at this point. 

    the folks around town, however... well, they see things skeeter wilfully ignores or otherwise fails to notice. the folks around town, they talk.