#ringotimmore

The days had grown tedious in the passing weeks. Redundant while serving as his employer’s silent hand that danced across the rain like he was a weightless feather amongst the darkened clouds. Each day was counted in their passing. Counted until they were harder to keep track of as months so he kept counting the days even as it stormed hard enough to wash out that old bridge on the other side of town and when the sun gazed down on the Earth with an intensity so bright it felt like it would melt your skin through the sweat.

Blackmore’s loyal. He always is. But that loyalty doesn’t stop his mind from drifting to a cowboy dressed in unique animal hide he could only stand when he wore it and no one else. No one else could ever hope to wear the dead and tanned skin like he does. Then his mind would skip like how he played and toyed with the rain he manipulated to his want and will to the gunslinger he only saw occasionally, if not rarer than the cowboy himself, despite being employed by the same man.

That house waiting in the orchard stared back. Stagnant and unmoving, forever stuck fumbling back through time, even as its owner sat out on the front porch carefully cleaning and oiling a 1874 Colt like a mother wiping the blood clean from her deceased child’s mouth. The handgun was always treated with the respect of a man devoted, a priest tending to the alter, like it would break the fragile sense of self if it became rusty and unusable. No longer able to stand as an unwavering ally in a death match meant to prove a sickly child wrong.

Another call drew Blackmore back to himself. It wasn’t the ringing of a telephone, but of Mike O. staring at him in disappointment all the while uttering where in this world his mind had drifted off to. Another apology slipped from his lips. The tenth of the night and they’ve only been present at this event for two hours and it’s supposed to last well into the night. Each time became more halfhearted than the last despite his utter devotion.

If Mr. Valentine noticed his sullen and distant behavior, he kept it close to his chest and did not comment. Blackmore would have died in embarrassment if he tried.

Instead, the night wore on and his mind never once tired of its repetitive slips. Drifting from one thought to the next. Some idle, and some fast. Never lingering on anything for too long before his head was filled with something else.

The inability to concentrate was driving him crazy but it’s been one hundred and twenty-seven days since he’s seen them, and it aches so much hurts to be so utterly devoted to three men and torn between his loyalty to protecting Mr. Valentine and never straying too far from his side less he need an able gun in a time of need. Comparing the three of them wasn’t fair but he’s long since learned life has never, and will never, be fair to anyone. Only Mr. Valentine can change that and that’s why he chooses to be at his beck and call.

Because why wouldn’t he want a world where misfortune is driven away? Why wouldn’t anyone want that? All the heartache and pain it would save was worth more than gold and silver. There was no greater pain than losing someone you loved.

The fire in Chicago raged day and night for almost forty-eight hours straight until it finally burned itself out in the early morning hours. Devastating families, businesses and livelihoods for thousands of people.

Fire was supposed to be a source of comfort and warmth. A light to guide you through the darkness and to warm your food. But a tamed beast is still a beast, only gentle until it’s given no more reason to be and snaps its jaws to bite you back. It became a raging beast that swallowed the city for everything that it was worth. Killing over three hundred people and scorching the ones that got stuck inside from the intensity of the heat and the awful stench of billowing smoke. It was easy to mistake the sounds of the flesh and bones of a human body popping as the sound of a crackling fire.

The sound and warmth of a fireplace had never felt the same since. Sometimes when he gazed into the flickering abyss that burned his eyes dry if Tim felt the same about his comrades he had no choice but to leave in the Devil’s Palm. The constant shifting sands likely ensured the corpses of both human and animal were buried despite their inability to return home. Hopefully they were at peace and no longer lost wandering a hellscape.

About halfway through the event, it started to downpour. Drenching the land where the earth begged to be quenched. Blackmore would always appreciate the rain for as long as he lived. It doused the Chicago Fire along with his childish nativity his ability to manipulate rain was anything other than to stop it from falling. He would have killed everyone, he did kill everyone, if he had tried, and he did. He tried so hard but nothing was working—

The walk back home was quiet and peaceful as thunder crackled along the sky, illuminating the clouds as thunder rolled ahead of it like an omen. Mr. Valentine hadn’t spoken a word about his performance when he dismissed him for the remainder of the night. With him you could never be too sure if you were in trouble with him or not unless he told you. Mr. Valentine kept his face impassive in a way that was either a natural one from birth or a mask he painted and put up to hide his true thoughts from the rest of the political world.

Either way, only his wife seemed to be able to read him. And she did, like he was a book written by an excitable child that never learned how to properly write.

He tried not to be jealous of her clear devotion and love for her husband. Tried not to imagine someone cared enough about him that they were always thinking of him and knew how he was feeling just from a glance. But they were a married couple, fundamentally different from who he desired. He’d never bring the men he called lovers home to anyone but himself. For there was no one left alive to meet, and even if there was, he’d never dare.

Time always appeared to pass oddly when it rained. Perhaps it was how at ease he felt walking down the street with the gentle pattering of rainwater splattering on the ground and atop his umbrella. The sound of running water rushing through rains reminded him of the river Tim once took them to. He had even picked them wildflowers before dragging them along with a grin that made his eyes crinkle and the age to show in his crows feet.

It’s no later than three in the morning by the time he arrived to his apartment. The metal stairs leading up to his front door were slick with water, a hazard he’s seen both Tim and Ringo slip on and slam their knees into the grating or simply trip face first and smack their chin into the stairs higher above the one they slipped on. Afterwards, it had been funny, but not in the moment.

The lock clicked open easily underneath the stress of a prodding key and he slipped inside without a word and dripped water all over the hardwood floor. The doormat was practically useless as the door was shut and locked once again. He got his outerwear off eventually. The water made his poncho heavy despite letting liquid roll off its surface like a repellent.

Below the floor, he can hear the old, wooden piano playing something he can’t name in the bar he lives above. The notes are perfect if slurred in some places from a night of one too many drinks. He’s ninety-nine percent positive the owners are making whiskey in the basement, but as long as they don’t blow anything up, he really doesn’t care. He’s pretty sure it’s not the son running it anyways like the two old ladies try convincing everyone when they ask why they haven’t seen the young man around and instead excuse his absence with one thing or another.

The two women are sweet regardless. Probably well into their late sixties and just kind people in general, bless their hearts. Interestingly enough, they wear the same shade of red lipstick he’s seen on Mrs. Valentine.

Lightning cracked in the sky, a whip in disguise its lover screamed behind it. Illuminating the vase of flowers he very much didn’t leave out on the table. The tightening in his chest at the realization someone had been inside his home without him present itched something fierce as his hand hovered over his gun. Awaiting for someone lying in the darkness that was only brightened by occasional flashes.

Blackmore waited, a hand on the doorknob, prepared to throw himself out into the mercy of the clouds if necessary. All the urgency drained out of him at the sound of an excited meow calling out for him and scarcely a second later was followed by a weight throwing herself against his calf in all the display of affection she could muster.

Curiously, he named her, Midnight, because her fur was as black as the night sky and her green eyes shown like stars. She was a very timid and shy girl that would hide from everyone but him. She was simply just like that. Her personality just a unique as a humans despite his parents telling them animals have no souls and don’t feel a thing. But he’s seen different, been proven time and time again that animals have feelings of their own.

Midnight meowed again, more persistent and loud and he knew no one was in his home. Scooping her up, she grunted in protest but purred like a steam train nonetheless. He loved this cat.

Gliding over towards the table, he set her down to examine the vase. Her tail curled up against his cheek and over his nose, a constant back and forth as she meowed and bumped her entire weight into his arm with her head. Absently stroking down her back, his fingers brushed along the soft petals of the flowers with the other.

Blackmore smiled despite himself. That jealousy from earlier washing away to be replaced by a warmth that made him feel all warm and floaty. How beautiful was it to be on someone else’s mind? Enough so that they went out of their way when they didn’t have to. Nothing made him feel more special, and made him feel like his utter devotion was shared.

Nestled beside the vase sat a cloth bag. Opening it revealed the pears grown in the orchard blanketing a home away from home he misses. So they were both in here while he was away.

Glancing around, nothing else looked out of place. They must’ve not lingered for long. Naturally as his nature as an assassin, he’s curious what called them into town. What business they have. Tim’s a bounty hunter that is a regular for the sheriffs and popular throughout the nation for it. Ringo could’ve been called in by Mr. Valentine, strange as it may be as he normally lets the gunslinger stay at home waiting for someone to wander into his home.