Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You are the dance partner everyone knows.

No matter where we are your always there,

With your hands holding us steady,

Feet in a constant box step,

Always keeping the same pace.

We play tricks on ourselves when we're with you:

There is a small voice in our head saying,

“This song will last a little longer—no need to rush.”

But when we hear the beat beginning to slow,

Telling us a new verse is starting,

We can not try to slow you down, for

You are something that can not be changed.

Only thing to do is scramble near the end

In the hopes of finishing the dance the way we planned,

And try to remember how fun the fast paced jazz was

as the band shifts into a slow moody waltz.

Chapter Text

I watch you there on the beach building with sand—carefree.

You call ‘over, but I can’t join you.

My back is heavy with stones and blueprints,

All for castles I intend to build for kings;

Maybe we’ll meet here again someday and I can tell you all about them.

Chapter Text

I care for this beast I can’t live without.

On most days it’s small: barely has the strength to let out a small whimper.

I have to force it to eat, bath, and move—force it to care about our day.

These days are good; it only cares if it’s frightened.

The beast grows with the sound of laughter targeted at it;

Teeth bared and hackles raised from the dirty looks given by people passing;

And thunderous growls let loose at those who wish to hurt it.

At least that's what it thinks they're doing.

When we go out I have to keep the muzzle on tight and grip on the leash steady.

There are times when it overtakes me and bulldozes someone over—

Forcing me to drag it all the way back home or in a quiet corner

Where it takes it all out on me.

It’s jagged teeth on full display as it cries that it shouldn’t exist in the first place,

How I can be so much better in controlling it.

But after hours, or days, it’ll tucker itself out again

Where we’ll continue this routine that we’ve done for years.

Maybe someday I’ll have the strength to put it down.

Chapter Text

When you look at my hands

What do you see?

Are they soft and polit

Or are they rough and clawed?

Do they sooth your fevers

Or do they chill you to the bone?

When I hold yours do they keep you warm

Or leave red hot burns?

I myself don’t know anymore;

I’ve stared at them for so long that I see both.

All I hope for is that they’ve helped either way.

Chapter Text

I stand before a mighty river,

A river that I will row along soon.

Many passers-by have given me advice on how to deal with her,

From currents, to jagged rocks, waterfalls, and narrow turns;

All while telling me about the many adventures I’ll go on.

I can’t seem to feel their joy though—

I see the bones of those who couldn’t keep up resting along her bed.

My knees began to buckle at the thought of me going under,

But I have to get in that damned boat—everyone must.

Chapter Text

Just as Winston was close to rectifying an old Times article his, and many others, telescreen froze and as the mouthpiece gave a loud shriek. The hard sound of pushed back chairs filled the area as Winston marched with the others down the hall into the room off to the side for Two Minutes of Hate.

Even though Winston has done this many times he had to force his body to move into this low ceiling room where chairs that resembled cheap thrones were evenly spaced out and bolted to the ground; all of them facing a big mural of Big Brother painted at the end.

Metal chairs that would suck the heat out of your body when you sat down—getting colder and colder while you had to wait for everyone to find their own spot. But the part Winston dreaded most was when hidden compartments above opened and slowly lowered a bulky headset attached to thick cables in front of each seat. With a deep inhale he donned the thing over his face and rested his arms along the armrests.

While the screen against his eyes turned on and counted down from 5 he twitched as metal clamps snapped over his wrists. The way these headsets worked was they’d trick you into thinking the events and actions played before you were real.

What happened in all of them varied from day to day but they always followed the same formula: a peaceful moment that quickly turned into a nightmare.

On this day Winston was walking on a clean street where the sky was a beautiful blue. People were out and about on the street and as he passed the usual tightness in his shoulders were gone for these people seemed…happy. Not bursting from the seams with it but happy to just exist in the moment. They conversed casually with each other, small laughter here and there outside of some stores, and when they’d glance at him it was with a soft smile one used to greet an old friend.

Even though he wanted to stay there a while longer he was forced to turn down a corner.

As Winston walked he felt a cold chill go down his spine as the sound of a familiar voice filled the air—Goldstien. He went on with his normal criticisms of the party, and demands for a better life for the people and for the freedom of Eurasian soldiers.

With each word he uttered the sky got darker and darker until it was as black as night. He didn’t know how long but soon a new sound filled the air; the sound of explosions, buildings falling, and screams of people. So loud and so sudden he jumped in his seat, almost thankful for the metal bands across his wrists digging into his skin to remind him that none of this was real.

The bands however could not stop the screens from dragging Winston towards the sound which he realised, from his jolt of clarity, was the street to his apartment building. Even when the road was covered and lit with the rubble of his home, Goldstein's rambling continued on and on. In the glow of the flames he could make out faces of terrified mothers having their crying children being ripped away from them by the Eurasians—all while he said that the people of Eurasia were just as much victims in this war as Oceania.

For on and on this went with the screaming and talking, the screaming and talking, screaming and talking, screaming and talking, screaming and talking, and screaming and talking! He couldn’t move—couldn’t interfere.

Even when those digital soldiers noticed him Winston stayed still. When he tugged against the metal restraints he couldn’t remind himself that this wasn’t real anymore because their harsh grip fueled into this facade that he was being captured. Taken away to be beaten, executed for country morale. Maybe forced into a labor camp if he was lucky.

As he was thrown into the back of the truck he felt pressure against his head and wrists being pulled off.

When his eyes adjusted to the bright lights Winston felt his body still for the first thing he sees and hears back in reality is Big Brother. Mixed emotions went through his mind as he stared into his eyes and listened to him softly mumble through a speaker: here was the man who encouraged everyone to remind themselves what could happen to them if his power faltered; who showed us the horrors of the war that comes closer and closer to home.

However he was also a reminder that we are unharmed and safe at work—nothing bad would happen with him here. Soon others were free and they too were met with Big Brother. He glanced around the room as they all began the chant, “B-B…B-B,” when he locked eyes with O'Brian.

as he gazed at him, Winston hoped that he was reasonable enough to understand these thoughts that rushed through him.

Chapter Text

He feels himself at the edge of sleep as he sits in his rocking chair by the fireplace, kept warmed by a blanket across his lap and the low fire that has begun to smolder beside him.

His eyes shoot open as he hears heels softly clicking towards him, “Miss. Wilson?” he asks.

Even when he turns his head to the side to look towards the sound with his good eye, the old man can just make out the smeared shape and color of the women’s white apron in the low light of the room.

She lets out a sigh as she goes to help him get up, “I thought I told you it’s bad for your neck to fall asleep down here,” Miss. Wilson nagged. “It’s important for you to tell me when you're ready for bed so I can help you.”

“I can walk perfectly fine by myself, thank you very much,” he chuckled, with one hand holding himself up by her shoulder, and the other swinging in the area where he put his cane.

After Miss. Wilson guided the old man closer to his cane, the two went upstairs, with Miss. Wilson leading him; a lit candlestick leading her.

Entering his bedroom they followed the routine they did every night: she put the light on his bedside table, looked away although stayed in the room while he changed to be sure he did not hurt himself, and left with the candle; wishing him a good night as she gently closed the door behind her.

The next day, as every day, he was gently woken up by the rays of dawn let in by his window, and knew it was time to get out of bed from a knock on his bedroom door; that was followed by Miss. Wilson letting herself in. She looked away to let him dress, only helping with extra layers of clothing to make sure they looked proper.

But this morning felt somewhat different to the old man, for Miss. Wilson’s efforts to help felt half-hearted and her usual comment on how he should just let her fully dress him were gone.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, turning right to fully look at the blurred colors of her face.

“Hm? Oh, yes—yes of course,” she murmured, broken from whatever deep thought she had.

He didn’t believe her, for the rest of the day she seemed distracted: nearly tripping on a rug while carrying his breakfast to the dining table; almost over pouring tea into his cup and was close to pouring it on to him; and when he went out for a walk into his garden Miss. Wilson would fall behind and, from what he could make out, tried to peer between the row of trees to look into their neighbors yard.

He finally had enough when she nearly tripped on him when she was looking past the cast iron gate towards the road.

“Oh my—I’m so sorry sir I was just–” before she could finish her sentence she was quickly cut off by the old man.

“Miss. Wilson!” he blurted, taking a deep breath to try and calm himself before saying, “Help me up to the porch; I wish to sit down on the bench with you.”

With the cane in his hand, acting as both a support and a guide, he moved towards the house not waiting for a response from her.

“Now,” he said, as she sat down beside him to his right, maybe on purpose so he could not see her completely, “tell me what has been bothering you.”

“I–I thought I heard something last night,” she stammered, “something creaking—moving—down the halls. I thought it was nothing but than I went and asked the Cook and he said he heard strange noises too, and then I went to the Grounds Keeper and he said that one of his tools went missing—”

“Wait, what went missing?” He asked, his head snapping to the right way too fast and ending up with a pain in his neck.

“I don’t know, a lamp I think, what I’m trying to say is that something weird is happening, and I'm scared someone broke in and was running around.”

The old man thought for a moment, “was there anything else that seemed to disappear?”

“No just that, but—”

“Then it’s fine,” he stated, lifting his hand up and reaching over slightly as an offer of comfort to Miss. Wilson, “Mr. Anderson must have misplaced it somewhere.”

She gently took his hand in both of hers, and the two sat there looking over at different flowers planted neatly in squared off soil that went along the tall cast iron fence. Enjoying the soft buzzing of bees.

Soon the sun was beginning to set and the two went inside for dinner and to return to their normal routine, however when Miss. Wilson went to say good night she asked a question that had been bugging her all evening: “what do you think made those sounds?”

The old man let out a sigh, “you and Mr. Bailey must have heard a rat scurrying around last night; they’re always a nuisance this time of year.”

“Right,” she said, unconvinced.

“There’s no need to worry, okay? Everything will be fine,” he replied, and with that she closed the door.

Even though the old man tried to convince himself and her, nothing was fine.

Miss. Wilson continued to hear strange noises late at night and the lantern continued to be missing; from this new worry of hers she began to constantly look over her shoulder and even started to walk around the grounds of the house—always keeping an eye out for anything.

What put her over the edge though was when, 4 days after the first night of weird sounds, the Grounds Keeper went missing. Now she was jumping at every shadow and stuck to the old man like glue: always hovering over him and never letting him have the chance to be alone.

After 3 days of this madness he finally had enough when she suggested the idea of him letting her set up a chair in his room to sit and watch over. “Miss. Wilson I appreciate the worry, but this—this paranoia must come to an end!” he shouted at her, stumbling as he walked out of the dining hall and made his way towards the stairs.

“I am not being paranoid—something is wrong in this house—Mr. Bailey has also gone missing!” she screamed back, stomping behind as she did.

“HA! I would leave too if I could; finally getting away from your persistent doom and gloom,” he sneered, suddenly turning around to face her, “I bet you that’s what Mr. Anderson did, he was the smartest of us all though, he could see your craziness from a mile away!”

The anger in her face disappeared and was slowly replaced by a look of hurt. The old man realized this and let his shoulders relax; allowing the air to quickly feel suffocating as they stood still, looking away from each other silently.

He slowly walked to the first step and stood aside, looking at her. She got the message and led the way up to the bedroom.

They did what they always did of course, however the air still felt heavy and wrong.

When she didn’t bother to say goodnight as she was closing the door the old man whispered, “maybe you should take a break, live with your parents for a few days.”

Miss. Wilson froze, “who will take care of you then?” her voice was shaky.

“I will find a way,” he paused for a moment until he finally said, “goodnight Miss. Wilson—we’ll talk about it more in the morning.”

“...Alright,” she replied without another word as she gently closed the door.

Sadly, her and the old man would never get to see that morning. As the clock struck midnight the old man was snapped out of his sleep by the sound of people yelling—followed by something big being slammed into the wall.

Footsteps quickly ran towards his door and, just as the knob was turned, a pained wail was heard along with the shattering of glass. It was Miss. Wilson’s voice.

He wanted to get up. Make his way over to his door and save her from whatever was happening—THUD. He froze.

THUD.

THUD.

THUD.

CRACK.

Miss. Wilson’s sobs were soon replaced by a grotesque gurgling sound, and then silence.

He didn’t know what to do, so he waited to hear something, anything, for what felt like hours. Eventually the door opened little by little, until he could see in the low light of the moon a strange disheveled man holding a lantern—its light kept dim and missing glass shards showed thanks to a cloth covering.

This mad man made a rush towards him as he rambled about an “evil eye,” and how he “waited a very long time to do this,” and that he “had to get through so many people to be able to get this close.”

He couldn’t speak; couldn’t do anything, other than to helplessly try and shove this stranger away and yell. His face was flowing with tears when he caught glimpses of her blurred body: bruises blooming all over, pieces of glass sticking into her face, an angry burn on half of it, and blood still oozing from her mouth and where her nose should be; but it had been stomped deep into her face.

The pain of seeing her laying still didn’t last long though, for the mad man overpowered him, held his sheet tightly around his head, and soon the old man joined Miss. Wilson.