Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gaze fixed ahead in a thousand-yard stare, you are seated now where you have been for the last three hours. Ordinarily you wouldn't spend so much time in one place, especially with John hell-bent on your capture, but when your already-diminished mood met the absolute downpour outside, a bright light labeled “FUCK IT” started pulsing in your mind’s eye.

Fine, then, you had thought. Fuck it.

Maybe you would catch a break, on the off chance God wasn’t feeling too Old Testament today. Maybe the way you stumbled before collapsing into the front pew looked enough like a genuflect to tip the scales in your favor.

The gold-azure-maroon of what must once have been a gorgeous stained glass window glimmers softly in the evening light ahead of you. Even the destroyed half, shattered like so many precious gems on the flooded wooden floor, reflects the moonlight when the storm clouds break. Beads of rain glide down the razor edges, borrowing each honeyed color before tumbling toward the pool of glass below. Embracing the remains of the fixture in a soft, painterly curve grows a wizened vine of wisteria, its long and heavy blossoms dancing in the wind and water. Declining the easier path the walls offer it in favor of the jagged opalescence of the window frame, the vine weaves up, out, and finally through the damaged roof, shielding you from the onslaught of the storm.

It's a thing of beauty.

Maybe even more so than it would've been whole and intact, illuminated by sunshine.

Absolutely moreso than it would’ve been without a shawl of spiritlike pastel blooms.

And it’s definitely mocking you.

With an irritated huff of air, you wave away the thought. In what universe could some glistening scene like this make you feel even more vulnerable? More importantly, how did you end up in it?

Some wounded part of you mistakes your scoff for a sob, and your eyes sting with fresh tears.

It wasn't the weather so much as the humidity that had made it so hard to breathe today, you reason with yourself. Or maybe not the humidity so much as the pressure . Or maybe not the pressure in terms of a “weather” situation so much as the pressure in terms of a “violent cult is split fifty/fifty on whether to kill or brainwash you and you’re battling old demons instead” situation.

Yeah, that window is absolutely mocking you.

It’d been a long time since you felt like this. Everything, it seemed, had managed to collide into one big ball of “fuck you,” which had then been politely whipped into the back of your skull. It was hard enough to manage the things you’d struggled through without your life on the line, but now the tendrils of your old fears and tender scars have come back to haunt you, whispering of terrible things  to follow.

You’d acknowledged that Joseph was right, in a sense, but perhaps he had mistook the message God or his unconscious was screaming at him. Yes, the world is dark. Yes, you know how much power rests in the hands of violent men. You’d read his autobiography-gospel-manifesto chimera of a book and found more empathy than you’d expected towards the injustices wrought upon the Seed brothers, but -- but what about what you’re doing makes things any different? you think at the self-appointed “Father” indignantly.

I know what you went through, but I’ve also watched you commit atrocities that would put your own father’s to shame. I’ve been watching Jacob cling to the barest piece of his spirit -- barely even a will to fucking live except so he can die a sacrifice -- because you found a broken man and you revived him as a weapon.

You decidedly ignore the prickling at the corners of your eyes, playing out a scene where you can say what you want to say. Mete out comfort and condemnation in equal measure. Free the deepest convictions in your soul.

Your wrath, you practically hear John saying. You’ve done your best to block out his severely misguided code of ethics, but your fists clench by your sides despite yourself.

Fucking John, you spit at the imaginary Joseph Seed in your head, suddenly furious. His whole life all he’s wanted is one safe place -- wanted it so fucking badly he was willing break his own spirit to create one in his mind -- and you exploited it, knowing he would follow you.

Now he just makes places more dangerous instead.

A whine wrenches its way out of your throat. Your rage combusts further at the weak sound.

When Joseph had chasisted John at your “baptism,” the way the former lawyer had frozen up had taken you straight to the darkest parts of your past. His sudden muteness, his hushed apologies, his breathless “ yesjoseph ” -- as a man that took such care in enunciating your title during his prideful moments, the way the phrase became just one word on his lips then was as loaded with implication as it was terrifying.

John was afraid of his brother. John is afraid of his brother.

Afraid like a man before God. Afraid like the worst brand of parents think their children should be at all times.

And for all your twin scars, you felt rage, bitter and choking, when you realized who it was Joseph Seed had let himself become.

So you guess it’s gotta be the pressure. Or maybe it really is just this rain.

Fuck it.

{-}

Unaware of the war raging in your mind, it slowly becomes clear to John that the only reason he's able to sneak up on you like this is because A) this rain is in-fucking-sufferable , and B) you're too busy mumbling to yourself to notice him.

At first he applauds his own stealth -- Jacob would be proud, he thinks with no small surge of warmth -- but before long that fire is snuffed out with an appropriate dose of self-loathing. The resulting blunted emotion is like a token for him, a sobriety chip of sorts -- a punishment for every sin. The weight of it on his heart flashes familiar imagery over his thoughts.

Years ago, in his childhood home, the dying widow that lived down the street from him had suddenly, and quite mysteriously, started collecting windchimes of all shapes and sizes. It certainly added a charm to the place, and it must have made it more pleasant for she who haunted the porch so frequently, but John was naturally inquisitive. His fondness for them only increased each time a new one appeared, until finally he found himself awake late into the night straining to hear their lullaby.

When he’d asked his brothers about them, Jacob had scoffed that the widow’s daughter must be bringing cheap gifts to ease her own guilt over the theft of her mother’s medication. Joseph had shuddered at this, disgust on his face, and from then on the image of the serene ornaments became akin to a scarlet letter.

Lately, John has begun feeling as though there might just be countless windchimes’ worth of steeled emotions colliding in his chest, and the slightest breeze would let out a sound so loud that the gates of Eden would know then and there to never let him pass.

And yet, here you are. His ticket in. Joseph had reminded him of his purpose, and he will not be swayed now.

It is with great determination that John steps into the broken-down chapel.

Chapter Text

You aren’t calm, but you’re calmer. Your tears have slowed, but your swollen eyes make the more persistent drops fall fat and heavy onto your lap with no movement on your part. Thanks, body, you think blithely. At least you can cry for yourself.

It all seems stupefyingly unfair to you -- which is saying something, because things have never been fair. There really isn’t much you can do, even though you came out here with the intent to help people. Even though there are so many people who so clearly need it. Even though John could really use one act of kindness without some fucked-up ulterior motive.

With a boiling shame, you chase down the source of that thought to your traitorous heart -- Stockholm syndrome much? your mind hisses venomously. With a sob and a grunt of effort, you grasp the nearest stone at your feet, raising your arm and adjusting your posture with the urge to further vandalize the stained glass window smirking your way.

Empathy much? your heart counters.

You swallow thickly, and lower your shaking hand to cradle the stone in the jacket on your lap.

Much empathy, your mind confesses.

{-}

The thing about determination is that, like all other emotions, it is only as compelling and long-lived as one’s environment allows it to be.

The sanctuary before his eyes now shows up “determination” with an effortless grace.

Before the devils of ever-climbing pleasure took root in his heart, it would have been a scene like this that took John’s breath away. Now, even miles and years away from anyone he ever used to be, it nearly suffocates him. The tenacity of the phantomlike flora, the glinting remains of the art it so patiently reclaims -- it's stilling and centering, like an embrace. A stroke of God’s paintbrush.

A gift.

And you’re right there, in the center of it, absorbing the scattered rain and moonlight like some kind of guardian spirit.

John neglects to punish himself for the brief swell of his heart, but his jealousy does enough on its own.

“What a lovely little hiding place you have here, De-pu-ty...”

He draws out the last syllable, curving the tone up as if in question.

When it becomes clear you aren't inclined to reply, the bile of his envy turns to an uncomfortable sense of foreboding, and he begins walking down the aisle as if he could stomp it out of himself.

“You know, Deputy, as lovely as the scenery is here, you were perfectly safe from the rain in confession with--”

John’s preamble is cut short when he brushes past a sheet of wisteria blossoms. The resulting displacement of rainwater leads to a sputter he desperately hopes you didn’t hear.

Just in case, John picks up his taunts where he left off.

{-}

You startle when you realize you aren’t alone, but you don’t really have it in you to take the bait. His words echo as cruelly through the rain as they did off the metal walls of his bunker, but it seems too hypocritical to lash out at him after fully acknowledging your clandestine sympathies. Instead, you admire the wisteria, invoking its strength as you filter out his words.

When had it come to this? When had things gotten so complicated? You'd carried a weight of your own to Hope County, but now the lines you have to walk are blurred: victim and perpetrator, friend and enemy, sympathy and repulsion.

What a heavy thing it is, that fragile conscience of yours. Atlas would be impressed.

John sounds like he is not.

His steps become stomps as he approaches, but the provocations he's hurling your way don't register as anything other than noise. You really don't want to hurt him. You just want to clean up this godforsaken mess of a cult, because everyone else seems too busy pointing fingers to get to business. You just want to make things a little better before the world goes to shit.

It's only a moment -- or maybe longer; time slips past you like sand through parted fingers when you're this numb -- before John reaches your line of sight, stepping into the glow of the shattered window. His expression is aggressively jovial, as if he's mocking your pain.

Your mind’s next languid stretch of half-attention alerts you to the fact that, no, it isn't just the strokes of moonlight through glass making it look like John’s shivering.

John is shivering.

The realization adds a nearly imperceptible weight to the burden your heart carries.

You don’t realize you’re offering him your extra-coat-turned-blanket until the stone still caught in its folds tumbles to the ground.

{-}

He’s been talking for minutes -- minutes! -- and shouting for a good portion of it, only to be met with your thousand-yard stare. Although he’s mostly unhappy about being unable to incite a reaction in you, the dread he’s been working so hard to snuff out flickers dangerously when you finally seem to recognize him.

Your eyes narrow, and if he wasn’t standing face to face with the greatest threat the Project at Eden’s Gate had ever faced, John Seed would have said it was with concern.

This is probably why he goes as wordless as you when you gather the jacket bunched around your legs and offer it up to him. This is also probably why the stone hitting the soaked floorboards makes him jump about a foot in the air.

That dread, a black flame, roars to life when you don’t even make fun of him for it.

You apologize.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

It comes out in a tired sigh.

Not for the first time in his life, John isn’t exactly sure what face he should be wearing, but the fact that you had somehow gained the power to ignite such concern in him -- any concern at all, if he’s being honest -- is frightening enough to reset his persona.

“You think you could?” he offers back with less bite than usual, his hands clenched firmly at his sides.

{-}

It takes you a minute, but John’s change in demeanor seems to signal your mind to lift some of the fog it had been under. Had you realized what you were doing you might not have tried to help him -- for all his talk of sins, he doesn’t seem to know how to get the pride out of his system , you think not unkindly -- but now it’s too late to go back.

Ignoring your body’s protests, you rise to your feet with all the speed of a tectonic plate (complete with plenty of muted cracking sounds), and approach John with what you hope is a non-threatening expression. You’re not sure your facial muscles are as easily wrangled as your limbs, though, so you’re sure to move slow as you step towards him and gently drape it over his shoulders.

It’s too small.

His trembling stops anyway.

An imperceptible weight lifts.

Chapter Text

What the fuck are you doing?

John doesn’t move away from you, even though every muscle in his body is screaming for him to retreat. The threat against his family, his quest to Eden, his very life -- you are too close for comfort.

But he can't bring himself to move.

He decides to just ask.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You blink at him. He feels a little stupid, like it's obvious he's scrambling for purchase while you're utterly unfazed.

“Giving you a jacket.”

His lips part silently, and then close again. The motion repeats a breath later.

He hadn’t noticed how cold he was until you had intervened. Had the jacket retained some of your body heat? It had to, right? Heat rises, and you were using it as a blanket.

Thinking that clearing his throat might stave off the flush climbing to his ears, John coughs several times.

“You good?” he hears you ask lazily.

This time your voice doesn’t startle him so much, and the eyebrow you raise slightly exorcises the haunted expression you'd worn previously. His recovery is graceful.

“You don’t even have anything in my size? What kind of department store is this?”

{-}

John’s sudden wit makes you laugh.

You wish you hadn’t, though, because the flash of emotion makes you want to cry again. Shit, you snap to attention -- did he catch me bawling earlier?

Well, even if he’d gained new ammunition, at least you’d finally done something nice for the guy. Book of Joseph: 39,482; Kindness of Your Heart: 1. Don’t say the universe never did anything nice for you, John.

By now, though, you’re pretty sure your luck is going to run out any second.

“So is this the part where you kidnap and/or partially skin me? Or does that come after the witty banter, like usual?”

You fully expect him to take a swing back at you, but instead he just turns his head as if searching for something. A bit to your right and his left, the chapel’s pulpit lies horizontally, the end of it a foot from your thigh. With an uncharacteristic lack of flourish, he sits down and folds his hands in his lap, your jacket still draped over his shoulders.

The concern on his face reads as practiced, so you prepare to take his next question with a grain of salt.

“What’s really on your mind, Deputy?”

You’re glad you met his countenance with suspicion, because honestly, that’s the last thing you’d want to share right now.

How do you say everything and also nothing? What makes you think I’d even say it if I could?

John’s lips scrunch up as though he’s biting the inside of his lip, but despite the irritation it implies, he doesn’t press further.

You decide to parry the question.

“Nothing. Just figured you were cold. I’m also not really into the torture aspect of our relationship, so I'd like to get a schedule on that so I can… y’know,” your shoulders raise in a nebulous gesture, “reschedule it. Ideally for third week of never.”

He still doesn’t respond. You’re beginning to think he just wants to punish you for zoning out earlier, like a petulant child.

“ Second week of never?” you deadpan.

{-}

John isn't really sure what to make of you anymore. To be honest, he hasn't been for a while. The wrath, the pride -- your sins may be obvious to those who have lived them, but he'd only managed envious glimpses of your virtues as they were lavished on your companions, as far as possible from his own starved heart.

Now, John has received a mercy of his own from you, and although the gesture’s small he can't savor it without a thousand new questions. How can you be so calm right now? Why do you give a shit whether or not I'm cold? What kind of expression is that on your face?

He looks your way as though you could hear his thoughts, trying to ply out an answer. What are you hiding from me?

You inform him that your gesture was an act of concern, and surprisingly, the jest of the remaining explanation isn't enough to douse the new warmth that floods his veins. Him? You're worried about him?

He's tongue-tied until you finish speaking.

“ Second week of never?” you deadpan, and he realizes he's accidentally given you a taste of your own medicine. With a fresh focus and a flushed complexion he really hopes you can't see in the low light, John returns to the conversation.

“Well, then. Glad to see you're finally playing nice,” he says, and it's only half sarcastic. He wants to follow it up with another jab at you, his ego practically begging him to give it the reins, but there is a rising vulnerability in the room. The way your eyes keep going in and out of focus, the clipped speech, the fatigued humor -- it's all adding up to something that makes his gut twist uncomfortably.

John Seed is worried about you.

Worse, he's worried for you.

So he asks again. Maybe it's something about the flickering tongues of gold-amber-maroon caressing everything in the room, but this time he doesn't want to try to intimidate you.

“What's really on your mind, Deputy?”

Chapter Text

What's really on your mind, Deputy?

It hits you like a semi going ninety through a red light when John asks the question like he means it. Must've been a hell of a lawyer, your hazy thought process offers as it groans back to life, finally forming something other than a joke or an imaginary coup d'etat.

“This is really difficult for me,” you hear yourself say. The vowels come out thick, like your throat is coated in glue.

John fills the silence when you pause, sounding as though he's very far away from you, even as he sits not two feet to your side.

“Confronting one's sin -- looking it in the eye -- is always a struggle.”

A rumble of thunder punctuates the phrase.

That’s all he cares about, you think bitterly. You decide you don't want to tell him anything after all, but you can't swallow the sudden pulse of an oncoming sob, so you speak as though the noise would drown it out. It dyes your words like ink in water.

“I read the book, John. Before I came to arrest your brother.”

He appears to lean closer when you say his name, hovering just outside your peripheral vision. It's not a threatening posture, but your subconscious provides you with the approximate distance from your dominant hand to your hunting knife anyway.

“The brand of misery you’ve eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner your whole life long? I'm familiar with the taste,” you begin in full. “I chose this job so I could spare others from it. I'm here now to spare others from it. Only in order to do that, I’m expected to either arrest or eliminate both you and your family.”

The words are harsh, but the emotion in your throat softens them.

“My goal here is to give the people of Hope's County a chance to survive, even thrive. But in order to do that --” you grit your teeth, and your tone goes nearly desperate.

“In order to do that, I’m being forced to add more suffering to the equation. In order to do that, I have to hurt people who have experienced almost nothing but pain.”

It's silent for a few moments. John is absolutely still. You can tell even with your gaze fixed on the wisteria vine.

“Do you understand how that feels?” you breathe. “Or do you hold everyone else to the same standards they held you to?”

He flinches at your reference to his parents. You accommodate for this by pretending not to notice.

“It isn’t like that for me. I can’t erase the person within the monster, because I’ve watched that transformation firsthand. Over, and over, and over. People I loved. People I respected. People with the duty to protect who did nothing, or even worse did harm. ”

“It’s not about sin,” you continue as you turn back to John.

If he had stilled his fidgeting to pay attention earlier, he is absolutely statuelike now. You try to meet his gaze, your lips upturned in a bitter smile.

“It’s about recognizing that there will always be someone I can’t save.”

{-}

Maybe, John thinks, I just have hypothermia.

Actually, it seems more likely that this whole experience has been one long, convoluted dream. Why else would you be sitting this close to him, showing off your mercy when he asked you for your sins?

If he reached out to touch you, would you feel like anything? Or would his hand just grace the air?

Wait -- the jacket, he reminds himself before he’s tempted to try. The jacket’s real.

So did he just misinterpret you, or what? Because it had definitely sounded like you almost… pitied him. In ordinary circumstances John might be offended, but here in the liminal space of the chapel, it wasn’t as easy to crush the part of him parched for anything pure.

And that’s exactly what it was. Pure intention, buried in your eyes, under the storm and the stress. He pretends not to wonder whether or not he could endear himself to that spirit, and it takes a moment before he realizes if he did, it would be for himself.

Not for Joseph.

His hand shoots up to his shoulder, grasping the soft material you’d placed there.

Real.

Gazing down at the rippling pool of glass near your feet, John wonders if he has ever been as brave as you.

The thought is buried so deeply he can barely touch it, but still he’s gripped with the desire to match your strength.

He looks over at you, and then at the wisteria.

“You know,” John drawls as he flicks one of the blooms near his shoulder, “when we first developed this land, it was almost impossible to get rid of these things. They’re beautiful, sure, but stubborn as hell. If you let them grow too big, you can lose a lot of other plant life.”

He hears your breathing steady as he speaks, and the attention feels like another gift. How is he supposed to keep up?

“I had landscapers from all over come in to rip up whatever they could find. It was suffocating trees, blocking out light in the forests -- again, beautiful, but so…” he grasps at the air, realizing he doesn’t want to name another sin in front of you.

It’s a bit unsettling, the effect you have on him just by listening. A taste of my own medicine, he mentally concedes.

“Anyway, we removed as much of it as we could, but the priest that ran this chapel at the time had a plant he would not let us destroy. The landscapers assured him it would be too difficult to keep up with -- they said that in a year’s time it’d have overgrown the whole building. He was as stubborn as the damn flowers,” John laughs. “I couldn’t get him to leave, and the chapel itself was somehow not included in the deed to the land, which was somehow not covered by the title insurance-- ”

He calms his rambling with a short exhale.

“I had already set things up so the building, and the land it was on, would be added to our property when he died. He passed earlier than we’d expected, though, and because there were no solid plans for this place other than to rip out the wisteria, I let it slip my mind. A time later, I realized I’d forgotten about it, and cursing my sloth, I drove over to see what damage it’d done.”

Pausing to let you process what he’s told you, John turns, trying to capture your gaze as best he can. It’s difficult to compete with the force of nature that currently has your attention -- even though he knows you’re listening, he wants your eyes on him, too.

“How bad was it?”

Hearing your voice is also on the list, he decides.

“I was stunned,” John answers. “In all that time, the thing had barely grown, like it missed that stubborn old man who’d protected it. I didn’t really want to destroy it after that thought had crossed my mind, so… I let it be. I warned the camps nearby to keep an eye out for the flowers, figuring I’d get rid of it when it started overtaking the forest.”

There’s a comfortable pause as the rain pelts the tightly-woven vines above him.

“You gave it a chance,” John hears you murmur.

“I gave it a chance,” he confesses.

And it gave me one in return.

John sweeps his arms up, highlighting the disrepair and the effort the wisteria has gone to mend it. “Now look at it. It’s holding up the building and sheltering us from the rain. Poetic, don’t you think?” He chuckles at himself.

Some part of him feels like he still hasn’t said anything at all, and you’re still looking at him with those fucking eyes.

“Something about it,” John hears himself stutter, and winces. “I don’t know. It makes me want to…”

He genuinely doesn’t know, and his stare falls to his clenched hands. What unfathomable depths had he landed himself in now?

But you’re brave, John finds himself secretly conceding to you once again.

He takes a short breath in and pops his head back up. “You know, it reminds me of you in a way,” he says as conversationally as he can.

When your eyes widen with curiosity, he can’t help but continue.

“You have the power to become something all-encompassing. All-annihilating. And yet,” John shakes his head incredulously, “you mourn for things that should be out of your depth. You share shelter and beauty with those who perhaps…”

He blinks softly at you.

“With those who perhaps do not deserve it.”

It doesn’t fit into his view of the world. Not yet anyway, his own blasphemous heart sings, and the shame of it kills the gentle thank you in his throat.

The rain drums outside, patient and steady, until John realizes he has only one other way to express his gratitude.

Rising from his seat on the damaged pulpit, he mimics your movements from earlier, slowly and steadily approaching you. When you tense, he tries to soften his eyes, broadcasting his pacifistic intent. He then sweeps your jacket off his shoulders, brushes away the droplets of rain it had caught, and drapes it gently back in its place over your legs.

John either can’t help himself or can’t get comfortable with the meaningful silence between you, because before he knows it, he’s speaking again.

“My flower,” he breathes, fighting the temptation to brush an errant lock of hair from your forehead. “If I let you be, will you come back to suffocate me?”

{-}

Of course he would do something like this. Of course he would tell you some winding story just to compliment you in the end. It practically reeks John Seed.

As if to spite his predictability, the flair of his praise and the blooming truce you think you detect in his eyes makes you want to tease him.

“I don’t know,” you say as innocently as you can. “Are you into that?”