maltesefalcon | Pumpkin Hollow Inbox

There's a faint rush of blood in his ears, and his gaze unfocuses, all he can think to himself is John, you great bloody fool. He might not have any notion what a Primordial even is, but he has a good imagination, and he can easily imagine London burning and full of bleeding bodies, as that happens to be a nightmare he's had once or twice. There had been no talk of after. There had been words of commitment now, but nothing about the future, and he had fallen into the habit of being a lovesick fool, again. Surely he was getting old enough to know better by now.

Because if there's one thing in the world that has been consistent for John Watson, it's that when he is very fond of someone, he will inevitably lose them in some way. He knows he cannot argue with Cerrit, and it would be monstrously unfair of him to do so. He can't ask to be made more important than an entire world.

He has been in situations before where any sort of relationship could be ended suddenly, or with only very little notice. He needs to steel himself against that again. He never should have stopped. He never should have let himself get caught up in romanticism like this. He should know better. This part always was hanging over their heads, and he knew it, and he should never have assumed that relative silence on the topic meant Cerrit, like himself, had nothing to go back to.

You're a bloody fool, John.

He looks up at Cerrit again as he comes out of this brief fugue state, feeling several years older. "Yes, I would say that is also pertinent information." He swallows hard; his voice is husky. "Perhaps our lifespans don't matter at all. Come... come sit down. Please."

Cerrit sits heavily, for a creature with bones light enough to fly, and sighs.

"I'm sorry. You absolutely do deserve someone who can and will stay with you, and I'm sorry I can't be that."

For his own part, he's focused so hard on the local problems to avoid the thought of what he has to face back home. Oh, his wife and kids are alive, but. That doesn't make the coming Calamity that much easier to face, especially knowing it's his Calamity. That his shortsightedness was a factor in everything.

"I've seen very few people get what they deserve, in my life," he says.

Watson rubs his face, lost in thought for another moment, and sighs, heavily. "I think we ought to have had this conversation before now," he says. "And I'm a great fool." He leans forward, eyes on nothing in particular.

"That's so much responsibility to put on a single person's shoulders, Cerrit."

“It was always my responsibility. If I was paying attention to the right things, if I hadn’t failed everyone, the Calamity wouldn’t have happened. I deserve to face the flames and panic and pain with everyone else.”

Cerrit clicks his beak, hands balling into fists with his talons against his scaly palms.

“I am just as much at fault as anyone for what happened.”

His gaze flicks over Cerrit, and he frowns. It's hard to know what to say, especially as Cerrit's account is not exactly clear, whether it's solely his responsibility or only partially. He picks up his forgotten glass of brandy to have a swallow of it.

"You haven't talked much about this," he says. "Can I ask what your plan is?"

"I don't have one, yet. I'll need to see what situation I wake up in, figure out how I can be useful. I might be doomed, we all might be doomed. But I can't turn my back on it. If everyone ends up dying, I should be dead with them."

Would that make coming here at all a waste? Cerrit isn't thinking logically enough about the matter to get there.

"What good will that do, throwing your life away for a lost cause? Whose life is bettered by your death a second time?"

It bursts from him suddenly in a fit of anguish; he drops his head into his hands, at a complete loss. It seems a dreadful waste to him, the sort of waste of life he's seen too often already, and it hits too hard and too close. "But of course you don't know what will be there. I shouldn't... oh, damn it."

"It's not really about whose life is bettered, John. It's that I don't deserve a happily-ever-after with you. I need to face what's coming to me, it's not right that I should get away."

Saying the quiet part aloud? Maybe a little.

That's worrying, and a shade too fatalistic for his liking.

"Good men die and evil men live all the time. You'll choose what you feel is right, of course," it hurts to say that but John keeps his head high through it, he will not play the game of demanding to take precedence, "but there aren't enough good men around for them to sacrifice themselves purposelessly, no matter how much they think they might deserve it." His voice is soft. "I've seen too much of that. Just... think of that. Please."

“John…” he doesn’t really know what he should say next, what he can say next. All he knows is that he is torn between his future and the lovely present he has been very much enjoying.

“I’m flattered that you think I’m a good man.”

"Of course you are." This is not something to debate, in his mind. "If I thought otherwise, I wouldn't be spending all my spare time with you."

He rubs his face, tired, then reaches over to squeeze Cerrit's knee. "Unless you think me a complete fool, my opinion should count for something, surely."

Cerrit is quiet, in a soft almost sulky way, but then nods slightly. Having this conversation, laying everything out so explicitly, it all hurts. He knew his peace was only temporary, but now John's aware of it to, and that's going to change things, inevitably.

John's silent for a long time, too. He could choose to end things with Cerrit here and now. It would be perfectly understandable if he did so. It might, in fact, even be a good idea to do so.

He can't.

He lays his head against Cerrit's shoulder from the side, and sighs.

And Cerrit can't help but ho--not just hold, no. Cerrit grabs John almost possessively, saying with body language what he can't manage aloud, demonstrating the desperation he feels. John would be his happiest ending, but he is torn between clinging and this rotten view of his role in the whole fucking Calamity.

It feels like a release of tension, and it's a relief. He seizes Cerrit with just as much desperation, one handful of feathers and another of cloth. John wishes, vaguely, that he could properly kiss Cerrit; this moment seems to need it. Instead, he buries his face in Cerrit's neck.

Uncharacteristically, Cerrit allows his claws to pierce cloth, to sit against skin boldly as he holds John close.

"I love you. Nothing of that is any less true than it's been."

It thrills him in a way akin to a blade against skin, and while this might ruin this shirt he can't seem to care very much about it. It's an acceptable sacrifice. Had he doubted Cerrit loved him? Maybe. Briefly. A small amount. It's good to hear aloud. That Cerrit did love him made it hurt all the more.

"I love you, too," John says fiercely. "I want you in my life, however this ends."

Pumpkin Hollow Inbox

Cw: imagery of mass death

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject