bakerstreet | epistolary.

[ info in journal. can provide starter if necessary! ]

[OOC: Open to reverse prompts, too.]

[Proceed with caution- you will probably receive an essay in return.]

[The letter is sealed in an envelope which is plainly addressed to Pinkerton Agent Rico Dredd, but the sender is written as Tacitus Kilgore.

Easy to see whose hand-writing it is, anyway:]

𝒜𝒾𝓃'𝓉 𝓃𝑜 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝑜 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝒶𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹, 𝓈𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓎𝒷𝑒 𝒶𝓈𝓀 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝒾𝑔 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓉𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓅𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝑜𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒸𝒶𝓈𝑒.

𝒫𝒮: 𝐼𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓂𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓎, 𝐼'𝓁𝓁 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓉 𝒶𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝓃𝑒𝓍𝓉 𝓈𝒸𝑜𝓇𝑒. 𝐼𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝑒𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉𝑒𝒶𝒹, 𝒹𝑜𝓃'𝓉 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓃'𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝑒𝒹.

[A letter has been left for Tacitus Kilgore, at whichever post office he frequents for such messages. Turns out Pinkerton Agent Rico Dredd has terrible penmanship. Fine paper, though. There are ink blots lingering on the places where he writes Tacitus, as if with great amusement.]

𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽 𝓣𝓪𝓬𝓲𝓽𝓾𝓼,

𝓗𝓸𝔀 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓽𝓸 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓻𝔂 𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓹𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼. 𝓘 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭𝓷'𝓽 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓻𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯 𝓽𝓸𝓸 𝓶𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓲𝓽. 𝓘'𝓿𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓰𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓱𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓼 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓵𝔂, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓫𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓷𝓮𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓰.

𝓟𝓢: 𝓣𝓮𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝔀𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓼𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝔂𝓼. 𝓗𝓸𝔀'𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓯𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂 𝓭𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓰? 𝓝𝓸𝓫𝓸𝓭𝔂'𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓭-𝓽𝓸-𝓶𝓸𝓾𝓽𝓱 𝓲𝓷 𝓫𝓪𝓭 𝔀𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼, 𝓘 𝓱𝓸𝓹𝓮.

[Seems, for a time, no response will surface at all. Then two weeks later, accompanied by the bad weather only worsening — ]

𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻.

[Well, doesn't that tell him everything. A week later, a delay uncharacteristic enough to think there might be no reply after all;]

𝓢𝓾𝓲𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯. 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓪 𝓬𝓸𝓵𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓽 𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽.

𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼 𝓶𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓫𝓮 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓱 𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂 𝓶𝓾𝓬𝓱.

[A single, mocking dollar has been left in the envelope. Crisp, and clean. Rico can wait while he reflects on that.]

[A day to write it. A little over a week for it to arrive on Rico's desk, what with the pony express having to contend with the unprecedented harrowing elements.

The Van der Linde's have lost two to pneumonia, and now Bessie's fallen ill with it. Wouldn't take a psychic to work out the desperation an already desperate malefactor must feel.

The dollar does not return to Rico, what little good it will do them.]

𝒮𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒹𝒾𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝒹𝑒𝒸𝒾𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝑜𝒷𝓁𝒾𝑔𝑒 𝓂𝑒? 𝒟𝓊𝓉𝒸𝒽 𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓈𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

[Asking he writes, as if Rico can't picture the fuming, borderline raging in place of this embellishment.]

𝒜𝓈𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝑔𝑜𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝒹𝓈. 𝒮𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒽𝑒'𝓈 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

𝓓𝓾𝓽𝓬𝓱 𝔀𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓮 𝓶𝓮? 𝓝𝓮𝔀𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝓮. 𝓜𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓰𝓸𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓷 𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓪𝓲𝓵.

[Must have gotten lost, he writes, as if every other missive addressed to him had not somehow miraculously arrived just fine without similar issue. He certainly enjoys picturing the apoplectic expression on Dutch’s face when he reads those words.]

𝓤𝓷𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓾𝓷𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓵𝔂 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓗𝓲𝓼 𝓜𝓪𝓳𝓮𝓼𝓽𝔂, 𝓘 𝓭𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝔂 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓼 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓱𝓲𝓶. 𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓲𝓯 𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓷’𝓽 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓿𝓲𝓭𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓯𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓱𝓮'𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓽𝓸𝓸 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓪𝓬𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽 𝓲𝓽, 𝓘 𝓭𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓪 𝓼𝓶𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓼𝓾𝓶 𝓸𝓯 𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓮𝔂.

𝓘𝓽'𝓼 𝓪 𝓰𝓲𝓯𝓽, 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓪 𝓵𝓸𝓪𝓷 - 𝓷𝓸 𝓷𝓮𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓹𝓪𝔂 𝓲𝓽 𝓫𝓪𝓬𝓴. 𝓣𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓱𝓲𝓶 𝓽𝓸 𝓼𝓮𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓹𝓲𝓬𝓴 𝓲𝓽 𝓾𝓹.

𝓘𝓯 𝓱𝓮'𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓽𝓸𝓸 𝓫𝓾𝓼𝔂 𝓽𝓸 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓱𝓲𝓶𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯, 𝓸𝓯 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮.

Edited (today is also my day for edits hhfjdnld) 2024-01-13 05:15 (UTC)

[Disbelief and mistrust stalls his hand two days, then Bessie's symptoms worsen. Another has begun coughing too. Their dread is collective, penetrating.

Desperation consumes the disbelief and mistrust both. He doesn't mention any of what Rico's letter contains to Dutch. He only says he is going to try and find them some money, and packs, and mounts his little, loyal painted quarter horse, Boadicea, and urges her out to where he imagines the snow-covered path must be.

It takes a little over a week for him to arrive in town, and from saddle he writes:]

𝐼'𝓂 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝑜𝓌𝓃. 𝒯𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

[Handily, there has already been something left for Mr. Tacitus Kilgore. A letter that contains nothing but an address - that which leads to a vacation home of a wealthy man suddenly embarked for several months on a business trip, who has generously invited an upstanding man such as Dredd who has done sterling work to stay there for a while as to not let it sit empty and invite opportunistic thieves.

Well, it appears that a thief has been invited to its ostentatious doorsteps anyway.

Inside, a light is on. Visible through flurries of snow, the shadow of a man through the curtains and window.]

[To receive an address alone, at all, is an annoyance. Proof of Rico's prediction, a taunt—he knew he'd come. It takes some time, some navigating. The outlaw has to pause to check maps, to ask what few and irritable townsfolk he passes in this hellish blizzard for directions.

But, at last, he finds it within a settled-in nightfall. They slow beyond the estate's steel fence, the horse lengthening her neck with a shake to inspire Arthur to loosen his suddenly tightened grip on the reins. She side steps uneasily, blows, mirrors his unease. For perhaps too long a time, he watches warily the silhouette of the figure, blurred through flakes caught on cutting winds, through the ripple of glass, and shroud of curtain. If they're spotted, man and horse, they must seem smeared into their surroundings from the view inside.

He leans forward to stroke her shoulder and neck in cautious comfort, and then he eases off, and leads her to a large tree to shelter from the worst of the weather. But her being her, she doesn't stay. By the time he's on the doorstep, his thief's gaze already trying to root out promise sprung from unprovoked and unconscious instinct, she's on the front path behind him, bold and loyal and loving, as if expecting to be invited inside too.

The needlessly large door is tapped upon doubtfully, and while he waits, he looks back at her with a sigh. Whispers without weight, Go on, now. Her response is her own exhale, flesh quivering, and one ear turned toward him.]

[As impeccably timed as Rico's messages have seemed; he's been impatient. Expectant, is what he'd call it. Pacing the cold, emptied hallways, the weather taking its toll on him in slightly different ways than those suffering from a lack of rich friendships and access to vast holiday homes.

Boredom... truly, Rico considers it a slower and more painful death than pneumonia. Really.

Still, good things come to those who wait. A rapping barely heard, but still heard - he stalks through the entryway and reaches for the doorknob and locks, the brass chilling his skin. And Rico opens the door. To whom he’s inviting in, he can't even see through the dark. But he has a feeling it's Arthur Morgan - he just knows. Rather bold of him to assume, but what about him isn't? He looms large in the doorway, silhouetted by the warm light inside. His attention captured by the young man standing in front of him, then flicking to his horse and back again.]

Arthur. [He sounds genuinely pleased in his greeting, his smile curving around his name. A timbre that cuts through the howling wind, without effort.] You're looking...

[”Well” would be a lie, and since when does he do that? He cocks his head, searching for the word as his eyes wander over his mouth.]

...better.

[Than the last time I saw you, he obviously means, and means to remind. Still pleased. Lacking the stink of O’Driscolls all over him, though looking haunted in a different way.]

[Seems the outlaw has some rapidly, dark-cloud-curling second thoughts between the fraction of time it takes Rico to twist the knob and pull the front door open. He's taken steps back, his boot is partially lifted in mid-stride, giving away he had, on some subconsciously level, been considering retreating to the horse's side to pull himself back into the saddle. Rico looming and haloed like some malevolent entity out of a gothic horror novel.

Arthur's shuffled far enough the mare dips her heavy head into his space, noses into his arms. For them, not an unusual sight. Rico has been around the Van der Lindes enough to recognize the bond, how she follows, impedes his step, eats from bushels of hay when he's carrying them to feeding stations. Perhaps even caught him napping at tree roots, the horse standing serenely in the shade with him. He's seen Arthur's dog, Copper, weave in and out of her step during rides, his lope effortless and easy. Three wild creatures moving in unison.

Like a child needing a security-blanket, he makes no move to push her back, only stands uncertainly and feels her breath and whiskers against his fingers. In silence, he stands too long, too afraid. He can't bring himself to raise his eyes enough to meet Rico's — they get caught just below collarbone before drifting, swirling flakes of their own, to the ground.]

…ah.

[Better. Does he swallow thickly? Yes. Does he blanch? Of course. How well Rico notices is anyone's guess. And he means, honestly, to be prompt, all business, have words ready, but the blooming fear, a congealed wound picked raw, and immeasurable guilt smother him a while longer yet.

Then, as if realizing he still hasn't said anything he quietly and reluctantly adds:] …sure.

[In the gloom and the warm light keeping it at bay, Arthur's pale face already pales further. Pinched tight from the cold and fatigue already, it's barely even perceptible. What's the more obvious tell is his arrested motion; looking ready to bolt like a spooked animal, half-step in readiness. And yet, once captured under Rico's gaze, simultaneously rooted to the spot as if in fear that fleeing will only have the wolf giving chase. The mare obliviously pushes her way between them, like she can pick up on her owner's uneasiness and unintentionally the source of it.

It seems that whatever he'd prepared, it's vanished in the moment. Arthur stands there like, what, a child anticipating chatisement for some kind of trouble? A funny reaction. Rico hardly cuts that intimidating of a figure, in his own opinion. He's just a man leaning against the doorframe, waiting expectantly for a response. And when the response is as quiet as it is, as delayed in the silence - Rico laughs. And doesn't compel him to enter, or stride out and drag him in by force, gripping his arm. Instead;]

Come in when you're ready. Or don't if you won't. My drinking chocolate's getting cold.

[And with that, Rico steps backwards and unceremoniously closes the door to stop letting the heat out, leaving the other man outside and staring at an unlocked door. Come into my parlor. Arthur could certainly ride away now, give into the impulse to retreat. Nothing's chaining him here, to those steel gates enclosing him. That is, save whatever it was that compelled him to ride for a week through this bitter cold burning in his breast. And those are fetters heavier than any straps of leather keeping his hands bound behind his back, he knows.]

[Rico gives his invitation, and as he's closing the door, there's Arthur's juvenescent and stupefied expression. He bristles at the closed door, and—]

—amn it. I dunno what I'd need to come indoors for, when you can just as well bring the money out onto the front step, [comes Arthur's bickering drawl, nudging the door shut behind him.]

…if you were even serious. Which, for your sake, I hope so. 'Cause you might not like me, but some of them fools ain't done nothin' wrong, nothin' enough to warrant you danglin' imaginary cash in front of us, in any case, [Through his ranting, he shivers, knees shaking. And tracking dead grass, and mud, and snow, he falls into a preoccupation to evade his frazzled nerves, taking to inherent inclination he starts sliding foyer table drawers open to look, curious and keen, this young fox.]

A gift… [he mutters in mimicry, mostly, though not entirely, under breath.]

[Rico’s answering chuckle can be heard from up ahead, amidst the rattle of Arthur opening the foyer drawers. Unfortunately, truly valuable goods are rather slim in pickings, due to the intermittent use of the property. But there are decorations and ostentatious knick-knacks to impress guests, fat-packed cigars nestled in cabinet corners alongside cigarette holders, ornate letter openers and impressive-looking novels on bookshelves that have barely been opened a single time... Any of which he's perfectly free to purloin, should he feel like being a mild inconvenience.

And there he is. Standing next to a table on which a kettle and a steaming mug of drinking chocolate sits, cracking open a bottle of liquor. A tin of grated chocolate next to sheaths of papers scattered over the surface of the table, maps and newspapers scrawled over with notes on possible hideouts, sightings, and witness testimonies in Dredd's characteristically terrible penmanship, crumpled corners of wanted posters for criminals of all types peeking out from between the gaps. The guts and gore of his living; the hunt.]

What gave you the impression that I don't like you?

[He certainly sounds amused at the thought as he pours in a heavy slug of whiskey right into his chocolate slurry, mixes it with a spoon.]

I wouldn't make somebody come all the way out here for nothing, just for a laugh. Would I?

[Things are always worth a second-look. False boards or pieces of wood someone thinks will secure a stash of cash, a coin purse, some priceless engagement ring, but he doesn't bother. In part, because of the eyes on him and in part because he would rather this visit not last any longer than it must. Closing the drawer he has open, he tries to look at Rico, directly and unafraid, and is unsuccessful. The teal of his gaze sweeps away, shy, uneasy, and reluctant.

He shoves his chilled, gloved hands into the deep pockets of his coat, and in the middle of the foyer, stands with one heel faintly bouncing, trying to stimulate the creeping warmth of the house back into his limbs. The questions do register, but he doesn't want to answer them.]

This your place or somethin'? [he returns with new inquiry, new subject. An address with no extra details doesn't exactly reveal much, and it isn't as though Arthur knows where Dredd lays up when met with lulls in his profession. Does he have a family he returns to? A wife? Could they be here now, upstairs? He wonders and stares with unintentional longing at the steaming mug, scent of melted chocolate and whiskey hitting him in the gut, making him swallow.]

Or something. [Rico agrees. Seems like he'd leave it that for a moment, but he must be in a good mood, because he does go on.] A generous friend is letting me stay for a while. He likes to escape into the countryside on the rare occasion, but with all this weather...

[Rico waves a hand around them, self-explanatory. Putting an emphasis on the word friend, of course, as if a private joke, as he takes another mug and sets it upon the table. This time, preparing it with a much more reasonable amount of chocolate so that it still resembles something the average man could drink without struggle, not thickened bog water loaded down with sugar. A visible indulgence of Rico's sweet tooth, and certainly the least of the vices Arthur has discovered of him. Dryly;]

For one thing, I'd never use this carpet with a mahogany table.

[Perish the thought, hah. So, no, this certainly is not his ‘place’. And certainly not a home, if that's what Arthur was getting at. Forty and still unmarried, not lacking for looks or status but still with no children. No pretty young wife waiting for him in their bedroom as he takes a pretty young man on the floor as hard as he fantasizes and spills his come in him. If it weren't for his very well-known proclivity for the fairer sex, it might have caused rumors.

It seems like Dredd takes some level of ironic enjoyment from the ordinary as he indulges Arthur's change of subject, making wry conversation about something as inane as decor. As if there isn't a real reason that Arthur is standing there, as if he hasn’t seen him stripped down to nothing but a noise, by him and others. As if he hadn't slogged through weather like this for a week for words on a letter, and can't quite seem to meet his gaze. But regardless, there's a cup for Arthur, and Rico's curious if it would tempt him enough to take up the offer. And because he's a generous man, and because he finds amusement in being unkind in particular ways, he tops it off with liquor too.]

[Arthur's eyes drift, for a moment, to the carpet at the mention of it… but it is beyond him. What would a boy who's never had a house know of decor? Never mind that Dredd has certainly seen the state of the young thief's tent — lousy at picking up after himself (isn't the entire ground a shelf, though?) even if he's fastidious (always with his barrel makeshift-vanity and its toiletries, his tubs) about his own grooming and hygiene as much as one who is ever-outdoors can be. He concerns himself, is the thing. And may well be tell of the influence certain women have had on his upbringing and shaping.

Otherwise, he watches the preparation of this second cup of hot, spiked cocoa with an unkilled apprehension blossoming anew. He doesn't want it. He doesn't want to stay, to visit, to idle any lon—

His stomach groans, betraying him, the last three days unfed, and that poorly chosen carpet has his embarrassed, rounded gaze.]

Look, um.

[When he worries, his tendency to being hot-headed worsens. He isn't designed for extensive planning. Not a sensitive, emotional yearling like him. He had seen to the horses' needs, but had not packed enough for himself. And even when her food ran scarce, he took from stables they passed by to keep her going. The third night, he tried to steal a hen, and had dogs loosened upon him, he and the mare fled the farmer's shotgun.]

If-if you wanna just get what you're willin' to part with, I can see to gettin' out of your hair. …really appreciate it.

Don't be ridiculous. Hiding behind manners, now?

[It's a chiding response, cutting more than a little sharp. A ridiculous excuse to make for a hasty exit, and he addresses it with the ridicule it deserves. He leaves the steaming mug as he takes a seat - akin to leaving out a bowl of water for a dog, he thinks, as he sprawls in it like a throne he owns. He's never been shy about using what he has and what he notices for his purposes. A slightly gaunt look to Arthur’s cheeks, pale from cold but warming now, hidden behind his upturned collar to keep out the wind as it is.

And as he's idly figuring out all the things he isn't telling him; exactly how desperate Arthur might be, how poorly they've all fared the weather - he wouldn't put it past him to go more without, so that others in his camp might have a little more - there's a wandering, kindling flare of heat in his gut that has less to do with the spiked drink in his hand, and more to do with the memory of how it felt under his hand as he turned Arthur's head to face him.

Rico thinks he could have it again, if he plays his cards right.]

You're a guest. [And it appears that Rico feels he has some kind of entitlement over such guests, the word murky with a deeper meaning only he would know. Isn’t that what Arthur is? Once he passed over the threshold of a doorway he willingly stepped through, rather than being drugged and dragged over?] If you want to leave before finishing at least your drink, you'll be leaving empty-handed.

[But as a gesture of goodwill, he bestows upon the table in front of him what is most decidedly not imaginary cash. His hand settled upon it, he clicks his tongue. So fucking sit.]

[Nothing new, an annual event unchanging. Winter arrives, and in size, he diminishes—not to anyone's great horror, but it is true there seems to be less of him, swallowed as he is within that generous fur-lined coat. A horror would be, isolated and confined, if a light were suddenly shone through Rico's skull. Past hair and follicles and scalp, splitting through marrow to refract the disturbing perspicacity of his thoughts. That he can know Arthur so well and without mistake. Is nothing mystery to him? Arthur stands unmoving and reproached, small inside himself and in caught constraints of his softened inclinations, eyelashes and face dipping further into the collar to retreat. If only for heartbeats.

His gaze labors after the sojourner of this unknown house, occupying his modest throne as though he's only recently unseated the last king. Vision cannot make it beyond arm, beyond table, or climb from the knees — at the edges, it blurs when he forces the attempt. And he feels the familiar sensation of the corners of his jaw tightening, fury and fear. With a shift, the holstered pistol sweeps his outer thigh, fiendish ally. He could do it—draw the iron to point it at Rico Dredd's head, gift him a new, seeping hole between the eyes. He could kick his hand withholding promised money from the table, squirrel out what he may have stored in pockets, tear the house apart, empty it of its most minute precious stone. He could burn it to the ground, all of it, king and castle.

Perhaps he allows this fantasy to linger too long. Perhaps Rico sees the shock of light in a pair of eyes now staring, the kingdom desolated and consumed in ungovernable flames. How the scarce sight of skin at his throat pulses. Arthur looks away. He steps toward the waiting mug. What stays his hand, prevents his relish of such idle fantasies? That desperation, above all. Then, too, are his personal ethics: perhaps greatly tempted, Rico Dredd could have abandoned him to a worse fate. And for all he yearns for death, must he go out like that, filthied and abused by O'Driscolls? And since granting him access to their circle, their godforsaken, far-flung little universe, who is it who has really kept the wolves from the door — Rico or Dutch?

He finds himself in the presently shared space of this first-floor space, sinking into a chair of stiff emerald cushion and dark gadroon wood, opposite the table some short feet in distance. He's ungloved his hands to indulge the heat from the mug, and this and the warmth emitting out of a nearby fireplace needle pleasantly at his gelid hands, thawing. For all his dark reverie, he cannot still the shaking bounce of his knees, and he watches the caught lantern light on the surface of his steaming, drinking chocolate swirl and bob in relentless mockery of his timidity.

A few seconds or more tick by when he realizes he cannot spend the remainder of time staring unsure and afraid into the mug. There's a flutter, a peek at Rico where he's perched, and what ought to be an expected sight yet somehow isn't—how easy it is to forget how striking a person is when they're everything one's been brought up to abhor—causes the apples of Arthur's cheeks to spark with blood, become roseate, and his gaze drops to his drink as open and honest as a school boy's. Unlike Rico, he sits drawn in, unconsciously trying to not disrupt the air about them, as if to keep his shoulders risen and twitching knees and heels off the ground close enough to himself, even the devil himself will forget this particular project.

He sips, because it is now expected and because he now hasn't an inkling what to do with himself, but — it floods into his chest with an unholy forgiveness, surging to meet his thirst and hunger in insatiable quantity. He gulps. Not to rush things, although yes, he may have if instinct gave him a moment or more longer to considered it, but after stupefied, relieved glance into the sweetened brew. Swallows and swallows, chin upright, neck an eager pillar to drain every drop of nectar without breath. His careless slaking causes a thin stream to escape one corner of his lips. In no time, he's emptied the mug, and he swallows the once more, tongue gathering the last remnants of liquor and chocolate from his lips before he lets an overwhelmed and satisfied sigh. Another shy, uncertain, peek for Rico, and then the younger of these two criminals harshly nudges the back of his wrist and hand against his mouth.

Worsened by the concoction Rico created for him where he had colored in the firelight mere moments ago, the legs of the table keep his eyes, and he says nothing and waits.]

Edited 2024-05-21 20:19 (UTC)

[To look at something, of course, is to invite being looked back at. Perhaps this is why Arthur eventually looks away, breaks their gaze. But what would he have to fear from Rico catching sight of that temporary, mad fantasy flitting in his pulse? He already knows. He already can tell. And so Arthur, in looking away, only misses the sight of the corner of Rico's mouth lifting briefly in a triumphant grin, in an answering madness... and the opportunity to understand it. More animal than man, perhaps. Or more devil than animal than man. A lunacy more unshakable than a whisper, to follow the impulses that beat in his heart and imagination.

And isn't it madness, of a sort? To invite the young outlaw into an isolated home completely alone, with this sum of promised money and to taunt him with it while unarmed? Anyone might think it to be confidence to the point of delusion. After all, it's not just money that he's holding in his fist and keeping from him, but the promise of safety, health, and warmth. And god knows what measures the desperate might go to have it. Just look at dear deceased Lyle Morgan and the lengths he went to to escape this exact same cold, all those years ago. But Rico has a feeling of the edges of Arthur Morgan and the knowledge of what his name sounds like in his mouth, caught between a whimper and a gasp, and he's willing to bet it all on a feeling. The farmer might have needed to brandish a shotgun to defend his property from thieving hands, but Rico needs no gun here. He made a judgement call, and now he knows for sure he's beyond the fear of being threatened by it, too.

Arthur simply owes him too much. There might be a fleeting temptation to let this carelessly excessive property burn and take the older, damnable, arrogant man sitting across him with it, but there's no true capacity in him to cleave against his self-hewed debt. Bound to it as tight as a swathe of gauze wrapped around a hip and the gifted dignity of being clothed at another's caprice, and unknowing relief from bruises and raw marks pressed into its contours from O'Driscoll hands. And any injuries against him that Rico's made - what is that worth, really? Compared to what he could give them. How he could still save them now, if only Arthur jumps through his hoops like a good little show pony.

Rico does find it a little amusing that he can still exert this power, knowing that the money that's being withheld from him was made from his body - on his back, technically. He breaks the silence, eyeing the swallow of his throat.]

Was that so difficult?

[A question both rhetorical and amused. Hardly a hardship to drink down some hot chocolate. Though of course, Rico knows full well why it might be to Arthur.]

I'm curious why you came alone. Was everybody else too busy to entertain me? [Ahah.] Not to say that I'm not very happy with just your company.

[On ephebic features, peculiarly untouched and pretty, sitting below the ghost-faint evidence of existence and his own dereliction have etched upon him, blooms the color of some muted sunrise, pure, unhindered. Expanded by the days-long emptiness supplying him with no cushion to have caught the splash or so of liquor. He is not drunk, but the sparkling of his nerve-endings make not a single complaint for the rising warmth, the heat, new, in the hollow of his ears. If he felt safe, he might now, slip and slink and slouch where the chair holds him, and ask carelessly and loosening his grip for another.

Instead, the beastly claws—harpy, dragon, demon?—of cabriole table legs clutched around the smooth, polished heart of some poor lamb, some unfortunate, pitiable man, or the coveted, sacrificed virgin hold fast his gaze. And while Rico Dredd's facetious cadence keeps possession of his ears, those pools for eyes, squinted in irritation, refuse to stray beyond the protrusion of carved leaves just underneath the surface.

The wind whistles and wails beyond the walls, high-pitched, serrated, rattling the frozen purl of windowpane glass. Blows wisps of flurries hard into the corners, where they dance and descend without sense. He presses and works the grooves of his molars harshly into their opposing notches, and wonders, only vaguely, if he hasn't caused a stretching, fracture to splinter through his jaw. From table carvings to the inside of the mug flee his eyes, and that unrepentant voice and the presence it arises from hum around him, drone as an echo even after Rico has stopped speaking until he sees near-nothing, just white or the smear of his vision tattered in periphery where his heart bludgeons into his ribs.

Involuntary, mechanical with animalistic determinism, he's made the sudden steps from seat to just on the other side of the table to glower at the reposing Rico, and drops the mug onto the table where it just manages to not shatter but its clatter fills the room all the same.]

I drank your goddamn chocolate. Quit wastin' my goddamn time and give me the money.

[The unpracticed eye may see this shift as a resolve to guts and courage, but as ever, he is afraid. Even now. But how good he is at throwing himself into fires if he loves someone — and how many loved someones are waiting for him, for a chance to survive this particularly, brutal winter?

Misdeeds tempting law into action, getting on the wrong side of a fellow criminal—these are only a small fraction of the cause of deaths for outlaws and the unfortunates who fall in with them. A scarcity of provisions, inaccessibility to doctors, to the indoors, an inexplicable, mercurial change in weather unseasonable or otherwise: the rest comes down to the mundane.]

[Rico’s face cants sharply up at Arthur’s impetuosity shining through in that expression, glowering at him from above. The finger that had been tapping his thigh idly, stills suddenly. Arthur would be wise to remember that any sudden change in the cold, cutting winds of fortune can happen within these walls, as well as out of them. Dredd had been the perfect mirage of affability before he'd crushed his face into a wall, after all.]

Or... what?

[Rico draws out the question, tilting his head mock-quizzically. Two words dragged over a bowstring, a single, resonant note taut with tension and lingering in the air between them. You'll take it from me? Ha ha. His little beau has given him a reaction. But what he's really handed him is a perfect excuse. Rico's hand closes around the bottle, and-

pours himself some more. Thinks about disciplining him, a jagged impulse to shatter it against the wall and see if it makes him flinch. Lyle was a drunkard, wasn't he? But he sets it down just as heavily as Arthur had his cup, with an unyielding motion.]

I've been more than generous with you, and this is how you show your appreciation? [He's fed him, clothed him, cared for him. Killed for him. Stayed with him as he brushed a sweat-soaked curl of hair from his forehead, cooed sweetness and cruelty to a senseless young man in pain. A voice that's dripping with disappointment now, the cut of a hard-edged steel underneath the velvet.] Demanding things from me like a spoiled child? No, I hardly think I need to do anything.

[Rico bares his teeth in a nominal grin, meeting Arthur's outburst with an implacable will of his own. Quit wasting his time, dear. Don't ever overplay your hand, unless you're willing to kill for it.]

You'll have to earn the favor now. And it'd better be a good showing, or I'll send Dutch back nothing but that 'goddamn' chocolate in your belly.

[Outside, that wind. That wind howls lament, tests her rage against brick and glass and stone, wood groans in protest . The men stare in a suspended lapse, mere seconds yet both might describe it as eternity, waiting for the other to yield or fold first.

And when his surplus of cool confidence has Rico reach for the century-old imported, elegant porcelain cup, the room erupts with the blast of gunfire. Liquored hot chocolate and slivers of porcelain and wood from the coffee table become a small, contained firework. The cup exists no longer, a portion of table now missing, pieces of wood slowly tumbling off. A hole in the manor's nice floor, and a thread of hot smoke rising, Arthur's gaze like a cold knife behind it. His back is as straight as it has been, an explanation for this interruption still in his grip.]

I ain't tellin' you again.

[A rebellion which cannot be refuted. Stark and seething. What must he be thinking, what thoughts must have possessed him? The continued rejection alone, voicing his constant barrage of concern to Dutch van der Linde about the risks they cling to by their close association with a Pinkerton falling upon deaf ears? Hazy, drunken memories? I didn't really think he'd do it? You'll have to earn the favor now, is a high contender.]

Hand over the money, and maybe I won't put a new hole through you.

( he does canonly write to his siblings after all! )

[ Nonbinary retired former teen superhero, now full time college student trying really hard to not get back into the gig. Good with assumed CR or first meetings, more info in journal. ]

( it had been a joke.

less than a joke— a scornful remark she hadn't been meant to hear, followed by a muffled ow, so at least one of her cousins possessed a remnant of empathy. still. it had rolled around in her head for a while, oh, for chrissakes, do we have to sign up for letters to prisoners to speak with her? and is that even a thing, actually? that people do? do people do that. it can't be called that, that's a terrible name.

she looks into it. she has a lot of time, not leaving the grounds and rarely even the house. she discovers multiple different programmes, given a variety of different specific names; enough that she supposes it can't all be obsessive middle aged weirdos trying to marry serial killers. from a purely statistical standpoint, it just seems unlikely. any given single prison probably hasn't got enough of them to make it a full programme, for a start.

it's become something of a preoccupation, just the idea of it — finally sending a letter seems inevitable, and she sort of imagines that that will be the end of it. that no one will reply, and it will just be a strange thing she can't quite explain having done. but she does send a letter, written in elegant cursive and smelling faintly even when it arrives of patou's que sais-je?: )

~~Dear~~ ~~To whom~~ Dear recipient,

I don't quite know how to hope this letter finds you. The polite English saying (this is not my first language) is "I hope this letter finds you well", and it's sort of an affable thing to say to a person I think, a typically safe beginning. Given what I am able to presume of your circumstances (I don't know, presently, who this letter has found; hopefully, a person who is halfway interested in receiving letters) it seems to me that to hope you are well in them would be maybe not unkind or rude exactly but odd in its implications. 'I hope you are bearing up admirably in your present incarceration'?

As I don't know to whom I'm writing, I don't know why you're there or I suppose what would make your circumstances admirable or otherwise. I have been thinking a great deal recently of incarceration. My circumstance isn't the same; I could easily walk to the gate and beyond, or arrange a car or a train or a plane, and go anywhere that a car or a train or a plane can go. I've done that for most of my life, I've never sat still for so long before, but I don't want to. The idea of doing so feels different than it used to. I had a difficult experience and when I came home I thought it would be safer for everyone if I stayed. For me, mostly, but not just for me. Whoever you are, someone decided that other people would be safer if you were there, where you are.

I don't know if this is a very interesting letter for you to receive. I have wondered what people write about, usually, in these. Introductions, I suppose — connections. Connecting. Snapshots of their lives, maybe. It must be easier if you know you wish to write to someone in particular, but I think mostly these letters are for people who don't have those sending them letters already. My life isn't very interesting at the moment: in the mornings I drink black tea and walk from the main house to the garden and then back. I walk to the guest house which I am tidying up, and my current project is to go through all of the old papers that it's been used to store for the past few years. So I spend a few hours doing that. I have lunch. I go to my studio maybe and work with my silks, and then I probably go back to the guest house. I have dinner. I go through my correspondence and I make calls, and then I go to bed, and then I do mostly the same thing the next day. Sometimes swim. It's very orderly.

Not much like prison, I think. I could leave. Everyone says that I could leave, even that I should. Go here, go there, do this, do that. My cousin, he is English, he has an English saying for this: 'get back on the horse'. If I do it, I'll write a more interesting letter.

I hope this letter finds you on your way to something more interesting. I hope it has found someone it's remotely appropriate to say that to. I hope it passed a little time for you in a tolerable way.

Thank you for spending that time with me,

G.

[ How does one pass the time when confined in a prison made entirely of materials that are utterly useless and frustratingly impossible to manipulate? Read, mostly. And when he's not doing that, he is verbally antagonizing the guards with threats they are generally too stupid to grasp. He'd use smaller words but part of the amusement is watching them try to parse that he is both mocking them and detailing how he's going to delight in killing them later.

He's out of books today as a result. Apparently this was meant to be punishment, but considering he's read and re-read most of the titles in their very limited selection; it's not exactly a dire consequence.

What he's definitely not expecting, however, is a letter from a seemingly anonymous source. A woman, from the scent which faintly lingers from the page of the letter. He skims it once without really registering the words, assuming it's sent by an associate on the outside and there is a message to be decoded within the prose.

But upon the second reading he realizes, no, it's simply a letter. He's disappointed. Then he's somewhat suspicious, then he's mildly curious as to what sort of individual would bother writing to an anonymous inmate. Whoever she is, perhaps there is a way to utilize this to his benefit. Having someone on the outside, someone with wealth (which meant connections, resources) from the details she'd provided; could be very beneficial. Assuming she's not aligned with any number of enemies he's made, and that this letter isn't just a convenient way to toy with him. ]

G,

I would have addressed you more formally had you provided your full name, please forgive my lack of manners. You must also forgive my lack of authenticity, as I'm assuming you are already aware our correspondence is likely to be monitored. This greatly limits the extent to which I can share with you anything that might be remotely interesting. But I will try my best to make an attempt.

The list of things I am prohibited from telling you about myself is unfortunately vast, but what I can tell you is that I did greatly appreciate your letter and the glimpse it provided into a life beyond the confinement I am currently bound to.

English is not my first language either, we have at least that in common.

Your daily routine lacks stimulation as well as purpose, that much is clear. What is less clear is why you seem bound to it in spite of this fact. Perhaps, if you feel so inclined to write again, you might humor me with a reason for why that is.

Either way, I thank you for writing. It has been a pleasure to receive the words of one generous enough to extend their time to a stranger. Kindness is in short supply here, as you may have assumed.

- Erik

[ It's more than an initial, but he's not going to put his full name. No use giving her the means to look him up just yet. ]

Erik,

I confess: it felt sort of like a thought experiment when I was writing. Self-indulgent. So I didn't consider enough someone actually reading and responding — and I'm glad that you have. My name is Gwenaëlle; I answer to any number of diminutives. Gwen (for the Anglophones, you know), Gigi, Gioia. I publish as Ilde Sauvageon, but I don't know how much other reading material you have there. Do you need more reading material? Please let me know if you'd like me to enclose anything that won't get both of us in trouble. (I don't know if my works would be to your tastes, but I have them in French, English and Russian. You must tell me if we have another language in common.)

You asked very reasonably, and I did oblige you to read through a lot of vague nonsense, so I will oblige you with more specifics.

I was traveling a few months ago — it doesn't matter where but I'll say: I was arranging an end-of-tour party for my father in Nice — and an attempt was made to abduct me. I've always been sort of resistant to so much personal security as my father's gentleman wants me to have? So it was easy; I was driving myself. My movements aren't so interesting I think anyone would track them.

None of those people are in prison; they died. I was a little not with it when I came to, so this is very blurry, but it sort of sounded like a hundred cars backfiring all at once and then I was alone. I wasn't harmed. The drugs were out of my system in a day or so, I was told, and I had some bruises I don't remember getting that had to be photographed, but those are gone. It does feel dramatic of me to be so upset by it, when I'm well; it was much more dangerous to those people than to me, the way it ended up.

Everything was in its right place again so quickly. I should be, too. And our steward has a list of names when I decide I want to leave the grounds, for personal security specialists. I'd like to go to the states, because it's where my mother went, but I haven't quite got that far yet.

I'm sure I can find you a more interesting book than I am. Let me know if you'd like.

Gigi

( the threads are not difficult to string together— touring concert pianist and noted philanthropist emeric vauquelin has a daughter, gwenaëlle, often at his elbow in socialite spreads of tatler but besides news reporting of HEIRESS ONLY SURVIVOR she's rather dropped off the face of the planet.

ilde sauvageon writes unsettling, intimate poetry that wields sexuality like a wound and a weapon, less tantalizing than it is confronting, mostly in french.

her uncle, a noted parisien geneticist, has cited xavier's work in his own. )

[ info in journal. historical letter writing preferred, she heralds from 1927. ]

[It's literally canon for him to send snarky and/or demanding notes, after all.]

epistolary.

watanabe yuriko — original — ota

Sister Imperator, Prime Mover (1969) | Ghost

Kaz Brekker | Grishaverse | OTA

Steve Rogers | MCU

alina starkov . shadow & bone . ota

Chrissy Cunningham | Stranger Things

Ciri | The Witcher | voicetesting

Angela Burkhart | OC | An Eldritch God's Vessel

Rico Dredd | Judge Dredd | ota

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Tartaglia 💧 Genshin Impact

Arlecchino 🩸 Genshin Impact

Wren Fulton | Superhero OC | OTA

Ronnie Ecker | ST: Flight of Icarus

Erik Lehnsherr | X-Men | OTA

getting mail in that plastic prison is totally not the most unrealistic thing happening in x-men.

listen i can roll with it, this canon has zero rules for continuity

bova the space cow nursemaid, nuff said

sirius black | hp

eloisa paolo | original character | ota

Rhaenyra Targaryen | house of the dragon | ota

Belle Fox | the Artful Dodger | ota

Eloise Bridgerton | Bridgerton | ota

The Phantom | The Phantom of the Opera

Wynonna Earp | Wynonna Earp | OTA