The Marquis de All The Knives (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
balsamandash) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2017-01-06 08:50 am
balsamandash) wrote in rainbowfic2017-01-06 08:50 am
Darling Grey, Halloween Orange
Name: August
Title: no place to call home anymore
Story: This City's Got Grace
Colors: Darling Grey #10, "I was counting my losses, wasn’t sure if I should count you"; Halloween Orange #12, "Some little things get broken, and a little means a lot".
Supplies and Styles: N/A
Word Count: 526
Rating: PG
Warnings: Very roundaboutly refers to the aftermath of torture and horrible things, but doesn't go into details. (It's the angel trio, if you've readthebonesofferalletters' works in this verse.)
Notes: Not a warning but this is, uh. Not a happy story and not a... fair... one? In a lot of ways, to any of the three of them? Basically this is Bobby having a really bad day. I guess caregiver burnout is the best words I've got for it.
Sometimes, Bobby has to get away.
There's plenty of reasons to go, if he's pressed for one, which he hardly ever is. Someone has to keep up regular, reliable contact with the outside world. They need money, groceries; he needs to make sure his city hasn't broken down in his distraction.
It's easy to find an excuse to slip away, when he wants to.
It's less easy to forgive himself for needing to do it.
He doesn't go far very often because of that. He could spend two days sleeping on one of his counterparts' couches, and if he gives the right reason and calls to check in, Shaun and Hel won't make a fuss. (Probably wouldn't, even if he didn't say anything at all.) He's done it before, sick to his stomach with guilt the whole time. But they deserve better than that from him.
Then again, they might prefer that to where he usually goes instead.
The old building opens up for him as if he still had a key. It's been a long time since he's lived here, but nowhere in this city could forget him even if it tried. The hallways are still the same, maybe a little dingier, darker here and there where bulbs have burnt out and not been replaced yet. Bobby curls in on himself as he walks the same familiar steps, up to the third floor and all the way down the hall. Nobody's going to find him here, not if he doesn't want them to -- he's powerful here, in a place he lived and loved and shed blood and worked, in the city he protects and propels along. Still, he tries to hide his face, turning away from noises even behind closed doors.
No one lives in 320. No one's there to stop him from swinging open the door as if it's still his right.
It doesn't look the same, now that the furniture is gone and the walls are painted plain white. It doesn't feel like home anymore, but it feels like something, and he breathes freer here than he did in the street, even with the guilt still heavy in his chest.
He lowers himself to the floor, back against the wall, and closes his eyes. Listens like listening hard enough can bring back the sound of laughter and footsteps, like he can hear the voices he loves the most speaking the language they don't know anymore. Like if he tries hard enough, he can peel back the years until they live here again, shuffling around each other in the tiny kitchen and curling up together on a bed just a little too small for three and unaware that any of them could be broken.
I miss it, he doesn't say, because he feels bad enough already wanting to be here, wanting to go back in time to when he knew what to do and how to help; but he can feel it like the weight of silence and everything that's missing, and the first sob that bursts out of him is almost a surprise. Even without Hel and Shaun around to flinch, he feels like he's done something wrong by breaking the silence.
Title: no place to call home anymore
Story: This City's Got Grace
Colors: Darling Grey #10, "I was counting my losses, wasn’t sure if I should count you"; Halloween Orange #12, "Some little things get broken, and a little means a lot".
Supplies and Styles: N/A
Word Count: 526
Rating: PG
Warnings: Very roundaboutly refers to the aftermath of torture and horrible things, but doesn't go into details. (It's the angel trio, if you've read
thebonesofferalletters' works in this verse.)Notes: Not a warning but this is, uh. Not a happy story and not a... fair... one? In a lot of ways, to any of the three of them? Basically this is Bobby having a really bad day. I guess caregiver burnout is the best words I've got for it.
Sometimes, Bobby has to get away.
There's plenty of reasons to go, if he's pressed for one, which he hardly ever is. Someone has to keep up regular, reliable contact with the outside world. They need money, groceries; he needs to make sure his city hasn't broken down in his distraction.
It's easy to find an excuse to slip away, when he wants to.
It's less easy to forgive himself for needing to do it.
He doesn't go far very often because of that. He could spend two days sleeping on one of his counterparts' couches, and if he gives the right reason and calls to check in, Shaun and Hel won't make a fuss. (Probably wouldn't, even if he didn't say anything at all.) He's done it before, sick to his stomach with guilt the whole time. But they deserve better than that from him.
Then again, they might prefer that to where he usually goes instead.
The old building opens up for him as if he still had a key. It's been a long time since he's lived here, but nowhere in this city could forget him even if it tried. The hallways are still the same, maybe a little dingier, darker here and there where bulbs have burnt out and not been replaced yet. Bobby curls in on himself as he walks the same familiar steps, up to the third floor and all the way down the hall. Nobody's going to find him here, not if he doesn't want them to -- he's powerful here, in a place he lived and loved and shed blood and worked, in the city he protects and propels along. Still, he tries to hide his face, turning away from noises even behind closed doors.
No one lives in 320. No one's there to stop him from swinging open the door as if it's still his right.
It doesn't look the same, now that the furniture is gone and the walls are painted plain white. It doesn't feel like home anymore, but it feels like something, and he breathes freer here than he did in the street, even with the guilt still heavy in his chest.
He lowers himself to the floor, back against the wall, and closes his eyes. Listens like listening hard enough can bring back the sound of laughter and footsteps, like he can hear the voices he loves the most speaking the language they don't know anymore. Like if he tries hard enough, he can peel back the years until they live here again, shuffling around each other in the tiny kitchen and curling up together on a bed just a little too small for three and unaware that any of them could be broken.
I miss it, he doesn't say, because he feels bad enough already wanting to be here, wanting to go back in time to when he knew what to do and how to help; but he can feel it like the weight of silence and everything that's missing, and the first sob that bursts out of him is almost a surprise. Even without Hel and Shaun around to flinch, he feels like he's done something wrong by breaking the silence.