#ncfom

HUGE CW。。。

involves quite implied domestic violence and abuse so please dont interact if that triggers you. also the media is just a cw in itself but no anton doodles for today i apologize ⸝⸝ʚ̴̶̷̆ ̯ʚ̴̶̷̆⸝⸝

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A month has passed since then. 

Through the last bits of summer, you’ve shared missions, injuries, meals, rooms, and things of that nature, together. And through the time, you’ve realized that life feels slightly better with him. He’s made your job easier and keeps you company…in a way. 

This autumn, you’re in Nevada. The sun beats down like it’s still summer, though there is an occasional breeze. The sunsets and lack of insects make up for it though. 

Restin’ your feet on a glass table littered with cigars and dirty magazines, you rest your eyes, waitin’ for someone. The man beside you—Anton, stares blankly at the wall. The private room you’re in reeks of alcohol and tobacco. 

You shift on the leather couch you’re sittin’ on. “How’s the arm, amigo?” You open your eyes and turn. He is sitting barely half a foot away.

After a short, heavy silence, he lifts his forearm and rests it across your lap without ever breaking his stare from the wall. A dry, rumbly chuckle escapes you. You pat his sleeve, feeling the thick gauze underneath it. “Do it feel stiff?”

“Yes.” His voice is a flat, unmoving baritone. His eyes stay glued to the plaster.

“Means it’s healin’. That’s good.” You leave his arm to rest on your lap, and he doesn’t pull away. You close your eyes again, leanin’ back into the leather. In the dim, smoke-filled quiet, his dead gaze slowly turns, landing in you. You can’t see it, but you can feel its weight.

You hear the door fly open, letting in the sound of slot-machines and slurred shouting. Your eyes snap open and watch the door close. A man sits on another couch across from you.

He whistles. “Y’all killers if I ever seen ‘em.” He lets out a rusty chuckle and reaches for one of the cigars on the table. 

You pat Anton’s arm and he slowly retracts it. Leaning forward, you look the man straight in his eyes. “What’s the job?” The man cuts the cigar then lights it, all too leisurely. 

Seriously?

After a long drag, he puffs smoke in your direction. “Youse from the south? ‘Got a twang to that voice of yours. I’m from Georgia myse—”

“Why does it matter to you…where we’re from?” The flatness and unplaceable accent in Anton’s voice is more pronounced as he drags out the words. The deep baritone of it echoes through you. The man’s mouth is left slightly ajar, but then he catches himself.

He takes a longer drag of his cigar. “It don’t matter at all, son. It’s just proper etiquette to make small talk.” He puffs smoke in your direction once more. You hold your breath.

Goddamit, will you quit?!

You waft the bitter smoke away from you and sigh. You clear your throat and try to collect your frayed nerves. “He don’t do small talk, sir. Now, can we get on with it?” 

The man bursts out laughing, coughing out some smoke. “That’s fair—that’s fair.” He takes a drag. You feel your shoulders ease and take a breath.

Ugh, tastes like old tobacco.

“A young lady, thin, red-headed, freckled all over. ‘Think she was a runaway with all the talkin’ about going to California. The bitch cheated me out of a couple hundred and you know how that goes.” He tosses a thick wad of cash at you, it hits your lap like a brick. You can’t help but feel a little irritated at his re-telling.

Little bitch?

Grown man talking ‘bout some ‘little bitch.’

You knit your eyebrows together and bite the inside of your cheek. “How little we talkin’?” The man puffs your way again.

“Runaway age? I don’t know, it ain’t important.”

You flip through the wad of cash then look back up at him. Never in your life have you killed a child. So, for the first time in a long time, you can’t bring yourself to go through with it. You toss him back the money.

“Afraid I can’t do that, partner. I can pay you the money if that’s what you want.” You reach into your pocket and slide him about a thousand. His hands fly forward and stash the money in his jacket with haste.

You get up to leave, peering at Anton. He gets up slowly. His eyes look more stuck open than usual and his eyebrows twitch every few seconds. 

“Suit yourself then. Somebody gone’ kill her, it just won’t be you.” You whip your head back and slide your hand into your denim jacket. The man puts out his cigar on a magazine. 

“Come again?” Carefully, you turn your body to face him. He looks…amused.

Oh, you asshole.

“You heard me. You think just because you pai—” 

A sharp crack echoes through the room. Suddenly a fountain of thick, red liquid rushes out his neck.

 He immediately holds his throat, staring at you with desperation and anger. Then his eyes lose focus and he goes limp.

Quickly, you store your pistol in your inner pocket and exit. You walk through the busy casino at a moderate pace. You don’t look beside you once, until you’re in your vehicle. You buckle up.

“You okay?” 

You slowly face Anton, remembering that you just dragged him all the way here. He bores into your eyes so deep you could practically feel them inside yours. 

“Yes.” His eyes are stuck on you. 

New drawing of Anton and my oc. Sorry if her design looks like its changing I'm terrible at consistency. Thats probably why I never succeeded in any sports😞

[Creator note: This might be the last part, I'm not sure though. I want to add more depth to the (unorthodox) relationship between the reader and Chigurh. So, let's see where this goes.]

In the Ford, you watch the only window on the hostel’s second floor. The curtains are thin, pink, and haven’t moved an inch. After what seems like ten minutes, you hear a heavy thwack and a dark substance splays across the curtains. The bustle in the hostel instantly stops, but after a minute or so, it continues. All you can do is remove your hat and look up at the sky. 

The wind howls like it’s lost a friend and you can almost hear her voice floating through the desert. 

Man…

You put your hat back on and watch the door for the man. In a minute, he’s out. Before he approaches the Ford, he checks the soles of his boots. Then he makes his way to the vehicle. When he’s inside and buckled, you sit in silence. You can feel his eyes on yours, burnin’ through your irises, but it hardly phases you anymore. 

“Why spare me?” You ask, ripping your eyes off the now black horizon and onto him. The man blinks once, quickly. An eyebrow twitches. 

“Spare you… From what?” You stare into his cold, lifeless eyes as he inquires. You pat his good shoulder and shake your head.

“Nevermind.” You lean back into your seat and reach into your jacket, pulling out the card. You read it one last time before handing it to him. “Figured this was yours.” He only glances at it, then his eyes are glued onto you. You only stare back at him. 

After a long silence, he pockets it and looks straight. 

You buckle up and start up the Ford. “Where to, Mister Chigurh?” He keeps his eyes on the horizon.

“Anywhere.”

You pause. “Anywhere? Well, we in the middle of nowhere, Texico. If I drop you off ‘anywhere’ where would you stay?” 

His pupils stay on the dark nothingness of the desert, only dilating when he receives your question. “With you.” 

…What?

Just as you’re about to push against the idea, you think about it. To you, he seems reliable and capable, though uncanny. And that’s just him with a broken arm. He doesn’t really bother you either…not much anyway. 

What the hell, y’know what?

“...Fine, okay. Sure, partner.” You adjust the rearview mirror, pull out of the dirt drive-way, and begin driving along the road. “We goin’ to Arizona, I gots me a job there.” You peer at him. His eyes are already on you, they widen—just a bit—when they notice your short glance at them.

Birthday card for my chud brother

You spend the rest of the ride in silence, only arriving when the sun is almost completely down. The horizon’s a dark shade of orange fading to black and the stars look like bright, bullet holes in the ozone. Occasionally, you’ll see some wildlife in the depths of it all. 

The Ford’s headlights cut through the desert, illuminating the dirt road you’re driving on until you reach a small town. You pass a shot-through sign that welcomes you to Texico. There are hardly any houses, only old buildings—businesses—that passer-bys and tourists would frequent. 

Hardly anyone outside tonight.

You park the Ford in front of a two-story building, a hostel. It looks just as you remember it. As you enter, you realize why the town looked so empty.

Well, I’ll be damned. ‘Whole town up in here.

Good for you, Abigail.

You walk slowly through a crowd of drunkards, travelers, and solicitors. The solicitors don’t hit-on you because they know you by now, but they do hit-on the man beside you. He keeps his eyes straight, completely unphased even when they tug on his sleeve or grope him in places. You have to frequently swat hands off him until you reach the stairs. 

The stairs are narrow and wooden so you take care not to stomp on them. You can hear the man behind you. His boots tapping against the wood is the only reminder that he’s there. Once you reach the top of the stairs, you knock on the door. Almost immediately, it swings open and reveals something of a bedroom.

“Hurry up, now. I’ve been waiting for y’all long ‘nuff.” Miss Abigail walks toward a vanity.

Steppin’ over a pink, fleece carpet, you hand her the briefcase. She snatches it before you could fully extend your hand, pops it open, and begins to count the money. You watch her lick her fingertips and flip through money at an old-person’s pace. On the edge of her vanity, there’s a card that reads “Anton Chigurh - Fixer.” You carefully grab and store it.

This him or some other poor soul?

Now curious, you glance at the man. 

He stares right through her until he discovers you starin’ at him. You stare at each other for a few, then something over his shoulder catches your eye. 

He brought the dufflebag…

You look back up at him, his eyes are fixed onto Miss Abigail again.

Oh, shit.

You gently nudge him. When his eyes snap back to yours, you nod at the bag.

“Holler if I’m needed. I’m gone’ wait in the Thunderbird.” You sigh. A puff of air exits his nostrils and his eyes stay on you for a bit. Then they stick back onto Miss Abigail.

Now, you aren’t that religious—you’re a murderer after all. And neither is Miss Abigail, for similar reasons. But, suddenly you’re compelled to say a prayer—in your own twisted way. You lower your hat, shut your eyes, and clasp your hands together for a brief moment. 

…Amen.

You fix your hat and make your way to the door. Before you leave, you take a good look at her.

“God bless, you hear, Miss Abigail? God bless you.” You tip your hat at her, she only chuckles.