Work Text:
1916
It’s december. It's pretty cold outside.
It's the middle of the night and Jack is still outside. He does not feel anything from the dire weather. Rather, he feels warm.
There s a bottle of whiskey in his hands. The cheap stuff. He takes a swig and it burns. Jack doesn’t feel anything.
Why was he out so late again? He forgot.
He's been riding for hours. He's always moving. He's always been. As long as he can remember he never stood in one place for very long. Comes with the lifestyle he guesses..
His horse is loud. So is the winter wind. So much for the peace and quiet of the night.
It must be getting tired , always having his master waking it up at random times. Jack can't really relate, he rarely ever sleep.
He never had much time for resting anyway.
The horse is still going. Jack's mind is slow. Where was he going again?
The alcohol is not helping. He takes another swig. He needs to focus, somehow. He's got to remember. The horse is not slowing down. The wind in his ears is biting his cheeks. He doesn't mind it. He feels numb.
The grass is dry around him. It never snow in this area, it s still too warm. But the weather can still be a pain, he would know about it. How many times he spent removing the dry grass from his pants, gathering more to feed the cows. And how difficult it was to aim at the coyotes that were hiding in it. He had to, they were attacking the cattle.
Jack opens his eyes. When did he close them ?
He looks at the landscape speeding around him.
The great plains.
He remembers now.
The horse is slowing down at last. Jack starts to feel nauseous, but was it because of the whiskey? He's not so sure anymore. He also feels something else. It's familiar.
The horse has stopped. Jack climbs down.
He starts walking, and the path feels natural to him. Muscle memory.
He's not walking very straight and he does not see very well before him, but he doesn't need to know or see. It's instinctive.
He's passing through old wooden poles. The wind is swatting at his back, like it's pressing him to go further. He's climbing a small dirt slope.
Jack feels it. He remembers. He knows where he is.
Who is he kidding. Deep down in his fogged brain, he knew where he was going. He just didn't want to think about it too much. Save the feeling for when he arrives.
Beecher's hope. Two years later.
The house would look terrifying to anyone else. Big, old and creaky, with bullet holes in it, looming over the visitors.
Jack thought he would be scared to come back. But he's not. He feels...calm. Not happy, not excited, not particularly sad.
Like he just had to come back to make peace with his mind.
To rip a metaphorical bandage off.
He's at the front now. For a second he almost expect his dog to come greet him, followed by a worried Abigail.
"Where have you been ?? I was worried sick! Don't leave for so long again otherwise you ll remind me too much of your father."
Abigail.. mom. Her angry face is scowling at him. She looks so worried. For him of all people.
Jack feels like shit now. His stomach churns. His mom is mad at him and it's his fault. He pukes in the overgrown grass on the side. Feeling like shit yet apologetic.
Like a ghost is patting his back, soothing him. He's hallucinating, he thinks. But he feels a bit better now.
**
It's dark inside. The oil lamps in the house haven't been used in a long time. There's a few dried leaves on the floor. The place hasn't been tidied up in a while.
The floorboard is still creaking in the same spots. Jack learnt how to avoid them growing up, when he needed to avoid waking up his parents. Fetching a cup of water quietly was his most risky mission at the time . How long ago it seemed it was...
He s not avoiding them now. He can't really, he s not seeing clearly. His footing his uncertain, his vision a bit blurry, but he knows the way. He s still clutching the whiskey bottle in his hands. He got it all warmed up now.
He passes in front of a first room. Inside, an old banjo is resting against an unkempt bed. Jack is still moving. The banjo will never be used again.
More rooms. Bathroom, kitchen, the big living-room...
Everything in it's place. Nothing changed. Frozen in time ever since he left.
But Jack doesn't linger.
There are two rooms left. One is his. His room. Where he grew up ...in a way. A short period of his life you think about it. Jack never had much attachment to a room, anyway.
He was always moving. And he prefered to be outside anyway. Plenty of space to be, to read, to write, to listen to mom's humming while she knit and to dad's grunting as he shoveled hay..
Sometimes he could even hear faint banjo tunes in the air..
But now it's quiet. Only the wind in the old roof's tiles, the creaking of the floorboard and the sloshing sound of an half-empty bottle of whiskey.
He opens the other door.
His parent's bedroom.
For a second he sees himself in this place, between the door frames. Younger. His mom is crying and screaming on the bed. His dad is holding her, comforting. Beside the bed sits a small wooden crib. It's still. He helped his dad to build it months ago.
A delicate work for such a small piece of furniture.
Jack wonders where the crib is now.
But it's just a memory. Now the bed is empty. There is no crying, no words, no crib, nobody.
Nobody lives here anymore. Nobody's coming to check. It's just another abandonned house, like so many other ones he comes across in this world.
But Jack is here. Right now. In this old abandonned house. His old house.
The bed is made. Impeccable. He made sure of it last time he was there.
More unsteady footsteps. He's holding the bed frame for support.
Jack is tired.
**
Jack climbs on the bed.
It makes a noise , old springs coming back to life, but Jack doesn't care. Thed bed is big. He settles in the middle. He never got to sleep in the middle. He was too old to sleep with both his parents by the time they had this bed.
But he did sleep in it a few times, after everything happened. Mom was getting sicker by the day and he couldn't leave her alone. He then would sleep in dad's place.
But he stopped after a few times.
He hated waking up to his mom crying , holding him while whispering his dad's name. She was sad, and confused, and lost.
Jack just slept in a chair by this point.
He kind of regretted that decision.
When he woke up one day, he woke up alone. His mom wasn't crying anymore. She was asleep.
Everything was quiet now. That day was the last time Jack laid in that bed. Holding his mother.
Now nobody sleeps in this bed. No one will.
Except for Jack tonight.
The bottle is empty now.
He turns his head on the side.
Smells like dust. And , still clinging to the sheet, the faint smell of his mother.
There is no description for it. It just smells soft. And tenacious. Still clinging to the sheet after all this time.
Stubborn smell. His mom's.
He grips the pillow next to him. He curls his long limbs like a dog. He still have his boots on. His gun belt is digging into his side. It s uncomfortable. He turns over.
The belt lays now at the foot of the bed.
Jack curls up once more.
The bottle is forgotten somewhere. So is his hat. When did he took off his hat?
Doesn't matter.
Jack is tired.
He's a kid again, playing with Rufus. He runs with him in the house. They're racing in the living room, jumping on the couch.
Rufus is not allowed on the couch.
Jack is sick now. A fever. His mom is away for a moment. Rufus has entered the room. Jack is happy. His best friend is here to comfort him, he licks his face.
Paws on the bed.
"Bad dog. Off the bed!"
Rufus is not allowed on the bed either.
Jack is allowed in the bed now. He's allowing it. No one else is here to tell him otherwise, to straighten up or to remove his dirty shoes.
Jack is tired.
Outside, the wind has calmed down. No more whistling in the roof tiles.
A coyote yaps in the night. A lonely cry. He's calling for someone. Jack heard him.
But Jack is tired.
He turns his head one last time.
The other pillow is rougher. Less soft. Barely slept on. Not used enough.
Before his upcoming slumber, Jack can faintly discern something. It smells like earth, and hay. A little bit.
He's a teenager, shaving wood planks in the barn. A rough hand is patting his back.
He's aiming at a bird with a rifle. "Straighten your back and look at the target." He shoots. The same hand is ruffling his hair.
He's cold, but he's warm at the same time. He's shaking but not from the weather. Blood is dripping on his upper lips. He's clinging to a strong back. Sturdy. The man smells like horse, earth and hay. He feels safe.
That s dad's side of the bed.
Tonight Jack will rest in his parent's bed.
Jack is tired.
Jack is crying.
Jack is asleep.
Happy birthday, Jack. You're twenty now.