greatoldjohn | Open RP

He takes his arm back as Willa adjusts, purely because the position is unsustainable, but then her head is resting on his shoulder and it's just...

God. He hasn't had physical contact with someone who hasn't wanted to kill him in months. He almost can't remember what it's like, to have someone just- touch him, hold his hand or grip him in a hug or just lean on him, and he's not sure now he won't shatter under the weight of that simple, human kindness.

Something tickles down his cheek, and he lifts his hand to wipe the streaks of new tears from his cheeks. Taking a deep breath as he does, trying to rally. Keep it together.

"What's it like, John?" His voice isn't steady but he's going to fucking well pretend it is. "Out there."

John almost adds to the tears, feeling that relief in his partner, that Arthur is accepting that softness. He'd been so fucking scared down in the mines. So scared watching Arthur in the depths of his rage and pain. This, even more than his choice to save people in the cave, has him relaxing just a little.

John clears his throat.

"Right.

"Addison passes by. Small buildings between the trees… the snow is melting away, already, from the warm day. The buildings here look hollow. Empty pieces, as if reflecting the weather. Just the bones remain. We’re passing a building. The Red Right Hand."

He pauses.

"And the road, it winds between the trees that hug it closely, as if this road were a path carved between a mountain. The town is behind us now. Addison is behind us."

"And all that happened here," he murmurs in response.

Only, perhaps not all. Whoever Willa was, was a question that needed answering sooner rather than later. When she wasn't half-feverish and delusionally rambling about magic ships and Uncle John and...

His only loosely rolling train of thought was derailed by the sound-sensation of the dirt road growing more compact, the tip of the wheels onto asphalt, and he finally puts his hand back on the wheel. "Slow down- where are we?"

[I think we’re coming to a main road of sorts.]

Willa sighs quietly, shifting a little to get comfortable. She turns her face toward Arthur's bony shoulder, stirring a moment before being lulled back to sleep by the sounds of their voices. This time when she shivers it's not from the cold--it's a dream, or the start of a dream, and she knows it is one, but she's also pretty sure it isn't one in a way she can't explain.

A city. A ruin of a city, made from dark not-really-stone. A ruin of a city that isn't quite black, seen from above and littered with--broken dolls?

Well, well, well. It's a man's voice. Elastically cheerful in a way that gives Willa the crawls, even in her sleep. It comes from everywhere around her, or it feels like it does. Who invited you?

"Invited me to what?" Her response is somehow silent but definitely audible at the same time. She can't feel her lips move, can't feel anything really.

The dolls aren't dolls, her brain says, but she's not sure what it means.

Always with the curveballs, our Arthur. You've got the mark of a strange god on you, poppet. Who sent you? What's their game? Why oh why can I not tell?

The dolls aren't dolls. What is she trying to tell herself? It feels important.

"Who are you?"

People guessing is half the fun.

The dolls aren't dolls.

Oh.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, oh, god, fuck--

Talk soon, little germ.

Willa flinches awake, clinging suddenly to Arthur's arm as she tries to orient herself.

Edited 2024-01-14 09:05 (UTC)

"Fuck-!"

Arthur jolts, and its a good thing John has control of one arm because his hand flies off the wheel with how fast he yanks back against the unexpected tug. "Willa-!"

It's well past midday now - what little sun was in the morning sky has settled into a bright afternoon, the sky filled with puffy clouds as the sun flickers in and out of sight behind the tall buildings of the town - a city, really, a proper one that they've reached, as John looks for somewhere inconspicuous to park the stolen car.

"Jesus- a-are you--" He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "Are you alright?"

Edited 2024-01-14 09:58 (UTC)

"I was dreaming. Flying over a..." She's pale, sounds as haunted as she looks, and keeps a handful of Arthur's loose shirt in the grip of one hand as she clings to the coats with her other. "There was a city, a dark city full of..."

A tiny shudder. "I thought they were dolls until I got closer. There was a voice, too, and it felt like... whoever it was, they were actually there, but I don't remember what they said."

Willa squints her eyes shut, trying to remember. It makes her head ache to think about it, and she doesn't notice the dot of blood that starts to swell at the base of one nostril, itching at her nose and turning it into a smear.

"Why is it there seems to be only one of you," she says, dazedly, and then blinks a couple of times, coming back to herself. "...Where are we?"

Edited 2024-02-13 04:19 (UTC)

John is very very quiet for a long moment before he speaks.

[What were the dolls doing?]

It's clear from his tone that he doesn't want to ask this question, but he has a suspicion and it's not a good one.

[ This city is small, certainly a hub of some sort with clusters of buildings on every interconnected street and road but only just barely. The buildings seem as much like those on the outskirts of someplace like Arkham as anything else, just bundled together instead of spread apart. We're passing a building proclaiming itself the 'home of The Knickerbocker News' at the moment, and this street holds a number of businesses. It would be easier to look for what you're looking for, Arthur, than to tell you each one. What do we need? ]

Her paleness has a flush of anger to it now, though she still looks like she ate old cheese. She feels like she ate old cheese, too, for that matter.

"They weren't dolls," Willa says, very softly. "And they were... dead."

She shivers, then looks at Arthur. He knows better than her what he and John need right now.

Arthur's face stays pointed towards the windscreen, his eyes flicking around for John's sake but largely he's just thinking. Willa's information gets put in the back of his mind, for now, something to chew on when they're past the more urgent danger of being caught in a stolen vehicle covered in blood and gore.

"Right now we need to get cleaned up," he says eventually. "We won't get anywhere at all looking like this - I doubt Larson left a change of clothes in here, but maybe there's a coat in the trunk, and we can at least pretend to be presentable when we go shopping properly. We should find a hotel, o-or a motel, maybe, in a town this small. Something with a shower, maybe a bath if we're lucky."

Edited 2024-03-27 09:20 (UTC)

She rubs her face, grumbling to herself as she tries to snap out of the haze of the dream.

"A bath if we're lucky?"

There's a wry, sharp edge to the smile that comes with the short huff at Willa's question. "The fact that you've obviously had the leisure of growing up with one notwithstanding, we wouldn't be able to afford somewhere with a bath and multiple outfits for ourselves. We're also going to have to abandon the vehicle so we lose its trail. John, have you seen anything like 'rooms available' around yet?"

[There's a sign that says "motel" and an arrow pointing straight.
Break in three, two- perfect. ]

There are lights here, after all.

[We should search the car for money and supplies. Maybe there's something in here.

"Good idea. Then we can sell it - we might get a couple hundred dollars, that'll get us to New York easily." His face turns fractionally towards Willa, glancing on instinct even if he can't see. "Even with unexpected expenses. See if there's anything about used cars, o-or something that looks like a parking lot, maybe behind a chain fence."

She winces at the unexpected expenses part.

"Do child labor laws exist yet? I could do... something." It is half a joke. She's trying not to let her mind explode over the idea of getting a couple hundred dollars for a fancy car. And that being plenty to get three people to New York.

She clears her throat, remembering how it was before Arthur got his eyes back. The things she'd do then to tru amd respect his space. "Can I hang onto your sleeve until we park?"

Not just grabbing and clinging without asking. No matter how much she just wants a hug and for this to be a weird breach or flood or something.

[ We should sell it anyway. It's something that could get us in trouble. ]

John doesn't know much about the law, but he does know that stealing things (like boats) has police coming after you and being caught with it in hand is a bad idea.

[ What's a 'child labor' law? ]

"I'll explain later." Easier than going into any of that just yet.

But his arm moves closer to Willa, his hand nudging gently against her arm. "Right now- let's park in that motel. We'll strip the car for supplies, get cleaned up, sell it - work out shopping from there."

His head shifts like he's glancing askance at Willa. "You'll need to decide now, Willa. Pretend to be a boy, or dress properly as a girl."

She's going to hang on to Arthur as low-key-ly as possible but she is still very much hanging on.

"Dress prop--" For a second she's both confused and affronted, and then it clicks. "Oh. Fuck. I mean uh--"

It's probably not girly to say fuck. She remembers her dad's face when she used it in front of him (What. It's a word. People use words to communicate.) and gets a pang of anxiety and homesickness that she does not want to deal with.

"Boy. I can stuff my hair in a hat or something?"

It's not the curse that surprises a soft laugh out of Arthur, a brief warm huff - it's how she tries to walk it back despite how much she's been cursing already.

"Alright. Then for now you're my nephew. Paul Henley. Cutting would be simpler but we can- w-we'll- braid your hair, later, make sure it doesn't come loose if you lose the hat."

[ Henley? Who the fuck is that? ]

He's familiar with the concept of a fake name, he remembers them picking up the false ID after all, but he would like some context, Arthur! Don't leave him out of it!

She mouths the name Paul and wrinkles her nose, but something else occurs to her.

"Uh, don't know who Paul Henley is other than maybe a guy who invented a kind of shirt, but I can't really fake a deeper voice that well. Trust me I've tried. ...Would I have to wear a dress?"

"Just clear your throat, and talk as low as you can without forcing it. It's called the bottom of your register. With any luck people might think you're younger than you are, just- tall, for your age."

And they'll be mostly focused on him anyway, he's sure. A ferocious-looking Brit with too much money for his blood-stained clothing. There'll be too many questions in their minds to even notice her.

"And- look, the best fake name is one you've already got committed to memory, which is why I'll be Will Henley. You're my brother's son, er- wait, how old are you?"

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