[open]
Who: Tom (open)
When: shortly after sundown
Where: The jail
Summary: sore and sorry, someone's back from the dead.
Rating: TBA
Tom awoke in a cold sweat, gasping for air, hands clawing over his neck, the echo of a gunshot in his ears. It was, truthfully, the last thing he remembered and it was a single second before the realization came flooding back.
Sick of what was going on, upset, desperate as the rest of the town, he had gone in search of who-- whatever was behind it. Most of him thought there wouldn’t be anything to find, but a small bit, the part in denial, urged him on. If there was someone else to blame, someone else to fit the pieces, then it couldn’t be true. Harry couldn’t be behind it. He just--
He just couldn’t.
It was only when he had gotten home that the attacker approached. Silently, eerily graceful despite his heavy boots, Harry had come for him. That soulless mask stared down at him from the last remains of twilight, gloved hands pinning him against the wall-
Tom yelled out in surprise, trying as hard as he could to free himself from Harry’s grasp, but the man was too strong. He was always too strong. And Harry knew Tom. He knew how to fight him, how to hold him, and how to make his point. He came on hard and fast, fists knocking any sense from the situation - aided by the blund side of his axe. Tom tried to fight back, tried to get away, he even half got free at one point, but it just wasn’t enough. At the end of the day, it was never enough, and making deals with fairytales was a pale substitute. The whole thing was all to vivid to be fake, but it carried a surreal thread, like you feel when you're fighting someone in a dream. No matter how quick you are, they're always quicker or stronger or know what's coming.
Harry had been free since Discordia met the fate she so rightly deserved, but his anger, his rage, stayed under the surface. It crept around under Tom’s skin, like tar in his veins, waiting. Tom had caught little glimpses, sure, little things. A flash in the mirror maybe, a dream that wasn’t actually a dream, it was clever this time. Different for the killer who simply struck and kept on going, but this time was different. This wasn’t about Harmony. This wasn’t about those fucking kids in the mine.
This time it was personal.
The town had moved against Harry, gotten involved in something that wasn’t theirs, and he didn’t fucking like it. And with Valentine’s just around the corner? Well… why not.
It was then that the door to his, their, Tom’s house began to open. Harry threw his bleary-eyed prisoner to the floor, crushing his foot down against Tom’s head for good measure. It was dark now. Quiet. And it looked like they had a visitor.
“Tom?”
It was Alex. Just the little shit Harry had been meaning to see. It was only a matter of time before he came. The useless fuck couldn’t see past his little gal-pal to stop from running head first into the lion’s den.
Tom?
“N,no--” A breathless warning no one heard but Tom as he lay on the floor. In the darkness, Harry moved in silence. This was his sandbox, he could do as he liked. And right now, sparing only one glance back, he was teaching his boy a valuable lesson.
The next thing Tom knew, he was standing upright, his vision obscured by something heavy against his face. It was a glimpse, a brief second or two as he fought against his own mind. Alex calling his name, unadulterated fear in his eyes.
And after that, there was only the bullet in his neck. And falling. And more pain then he could ever imagine. Clawing, gurgling, trying to scream through mouthfuls of blood.
Then suddenly... suddenly a ragged breath, and air pulled itself into his lungs for what felt like forever. He gasped for it, breathing as heavily with his fingers curled around his windpipe. Every inch of him was sore, every joint groaned in protest of animation, and the smallest movement sent his head spinning.
The knot in Tom’s stomach pulled itself tighter with each second. A place marker for the guilt and grief and utter useless fuck he really was. There was no way to cope with it. There was no way to comprehend--
A foul stench had wound its way into the air, and his back hurt from laying still for so long. Pulling himself up onto his elbows, Tom squinted through the dusk, silently willing his eyes to focus on anything. A few shadows cast themselves around the tiny room, courtesy of the barred window in his-
Cell.
God damn it.
When: shortly after sundown
Where: The jail
Summary: sore and sorry, someone's back from the dead.
Rating: TBA
Tom awoke in a cold sweat, gasping for air, hands clawing over his neck, the echo of a gunshot in his ears. It was, truthfully, the last thing he remembered and it was a single second before the realization came flooding back.
Sick of what was going on, upset, desperate as the rest of the town, he had gone in search of who-- whatever was behind it. Most of him thought there wouldn’t be anything to find, but a small bit, the part in denial, urged him on. If there was someone else to blame, someone else to fit the pieces, then it couldn’t be true. Harry couldn’t be behind it. He just--
He just couldn’t.
It was only when he had gotten home that the attacker approached. Silently, eerily graceful despite his heavy boots, Harry had come for him. That soulless mask stared down at him from the last remains of twilight, gloved hands pinning him against the wall-
Tom yelled out in surprise, trying as hard as he could to free himself from Harry’s grasp, but the man was too strong. He was always too strong. And Harry knew Tom. He knew how to fight him, how to hold him, and how to make his point. He came on hard and fast, fists knocking any sense from the situation - aided by the blund side of his axe. Tom tried to fight back, tried to get away, he even half got free at one point, but it just wasn’t enough. At the end of the day, it was never enough, and making deals with fairytales was a pale substitute. The whole thing was all to vivid to be fake, but it carried a surreal thread, like you feel when you're fighting someone in a dream. No matter how quick you are, they're always quicker or stronger or know what's coming.
Harry had been free since Discordia met the fate she so rightly deserved, but his anger, his rage, stayed under the surface. It crept around under Tom’s skin, like tar in his veins, waiting. Tom had caught little glimpses, sure, little things. A flash in the mirror maybe, a dream that wasn’t actually a dream, it was clever this time. Different for the killer who simply struck and kept on going, but this time was different. This wasn’t about Harmony. This wasn’t about those fucking kids in the mine.
This time it was personal.
The town had moved against Harry, gotten involved in something that wasn’t theirs, and he didn’t fucking like it. And with Valentine’s just around the corner? Well… why not.
It was then that the door to his, their, Tom’s house began to open. Harry threw his bleary-eyed prisoner to the floor, crushing his foot down against Tom’s head for good measure. It was dark now. Quiet. And it looked like they had a visitor.
“Tom?”
It was Alex. Just the little shit Harry had been meaning to see. It was only a matter of time before he came. The useless fuck couldn’t see past his little gal-pal to stop from running head first into the lion’s den.
Tom?
“N,no--” A breathless warning no one heard but Tom as he lay on the floor. In the darkness, Harry moved in silence. This was his sandbox, he could do as he liked. And right now, sparing only one glance back, he was teaching his boy a valuable lesson.
The next thing Tom knew, he was standing upright, his vision obscured by something heavy against his face. It was a glimpse, a brief second or two as he fought against his own mind. Alex calling his name, unadulterated fear in his eyes.
And after that, there was only the bullet in his neck. And falling. And more pain then he could ever imagine. Clawing, gurgling, trying to scream through mouthfuls of blood.
Then suddenly... suddenly a ragged breath, and air pulled itself into his lungs for what felt like forever. He gasped for it, breathing as heavily with his fingers curled around his windpipe. Every inch of him was sore, every joint groaned in protest of animation, and the smallest movement sent his head spinning.
The knot in Tom’s stomach pulled itself tighter with each second. A place marker for the guilt and grief and utter useless fuck he really was. There was no way to cope with it. There was no way to comprehend--
A foul stench had wound its way into the air, and his back hurt from laying still for so long. Pulling himself up onto his elbows, Tom squinted through the dusk, silently willing his eyes to focus on anything. A few shadows cast themselves around the tiny room, courtesy of the barred window in his-
Cell.
God damn it.