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Mina was dead.
Eight years ago today she died. It was long and drawn out as most things were on the trail. Months he had waited for her to die, and somehow, when that day came, he still wasn't ready. He expected it, but he wasn't prepared for it. Like in the back of his mind he had hoped desperately that maybe she would pull through and the sickness in her blood would dissipate miraculously. Quincy had always been a man of realism, so really, he should have known that there was no pulling his wife back from Death’s cold and merciless grip. So when he woke that morning to find her cold by his side, he shouldn't have panicked as he did. Shouldn't have yowled like some wounded animal he would have shot for a meager meal. But he did. He knew it was coming but it would never prepare him for the pain. The guilt. The anger. Anger towards his boy for killing his mother. Indirectly, so, but still. Their Francis, whom they had waited so patiently for, killed his mother.
Francis had brought sickness to the camp, and it ravaged Mina’s body like a plague. It came on quickly and he was oblvious to the whole thing, as a newborn will be.
Mina had named him after the saint. One she had always been fond of.
“Francis. Like the saint.” She had said mere moments before, a soft smile crossing her face.
Quincy had never been a religious man, but he couldn't deny how smooth the name felt coming from her lips. A name that she had picked just for her boy. A soft name. Too soft for a life like this.
He would be subjected to a life of slaughtering blood hungry creatures. And yet, she insisted on the name.
Eight years had passed since that day, and Quincy still couldn't look the boy in the eye. Not when they were sickeningly similar to his mother’s own stormcloud orbs. A piercing blue-grey that would forever haunt him…
“Come on, boy. Want to get a move on today. DeLacy’s asked for a patrol outside their barn. Seen some of them vampires again.” Quincy says to Francis, nudging the boy with his boot.
“ ‘Right, pa, i'm coming…” Francis huffs, pushing himself off his cot.
“DeLacys again? They're paranoid, Quince. That’s their problem. We’ve got called down there three times and there's never a thing to kill.” Chetser says.
“Humor me, alright Crawford? Who cares why we're getting called down, we still get paid for it. Saddle up.” Quincy says, not looking from Nyx’s rein he was adjusting.
It had always been about the money for him. He wouldn’t have taken the job in the first place if it hadn't paid well. If you had asked him ten years ago if he would be working alongside the church, he would have laughed at you, probably would have insulted you in a way. Quincy had never been a religious man, despite his Catholic upbringing. God, in his house, was seen as something to fear. When his father was killed, who did his mother blame if not the men who killed him. She had blamed God, had asked why he must take such a perfect man from this horrid earth.
It seemed to him that if you believed in God, you were always avoiding eggshells to be stepped on. One wrong move and God kills your parents, it seemed. That's what it felt like to an impressionable boy of twelve, at least.
So why would he want to believe in him?
Why would he want to work alongside the church that was indirectly involved with God?
In truth, he really didn't want to. But money was tight on a good day, and Chester needed his medicine.
Mercury was ungodly expensive, and in truth, it didn't really seem to be helping his friend at all. He still had those awful painful chest pains that left him gasping for breath and clammy. And yet, he was still spending most of his pay on the drug. Just hoping that it would make him better, or give him some relief. There was no cure for what he had. An aortic aneurysm was, to put it lightly, a ticking time bomb that had slowly been
Tick
Tick
Ticking
for years, just waiting for the right moment to squeeze the very life out of his body.
Chester made Quincy’s chest ache. A throbbing ache, nothing like his partner’s flair ups, that only came late at night when he was alone with his own thoughts. His own thoughts, that only seemed to be of Chetser.
He was working with a system he despised, killing, harvesting and selling ungodly creatures for the sake of a man he held too much affection for. It wasn’t a paternal affection, like how he, at times, felt with Francis. It was a devoted type of love that he had once felt with Mina. He didn't know how to describe how he felt nor did he really want to think about it. Thinking about it just brought up a myriad of feelings that made him bewildered and vexed.
He wanted to give Chetser everything. He wanted to give him a medicine that would make the aches go away. A medicine that didn't taste metallic and oddly like licorice. A medicine that would cure, not hold off the inevitable.
Was he just supposed to wait for the walls of his heart to give up and rupture? In truth, it was all he could do. It made him feel sick, thinking about that. It was odd how sick and scared Chester made him feel.
He felt like the most precious thing in the world to him and he truly couldn't wrap his mind around it. How could a friend keep you up at night with worry? He didn't feel even the same remote amount of fearfulness or protectiveness for Francis.
Francis, who Quincy had promised his wife eight years ago to take care of and protect with his life…
No, no, he did care for him. He cared for him immensely, it was just different, that's all. Holding the boy when he was young made that man feel a level of protective and fierce love that he could never describe to another person. He had told the boy of his mother, of how beautiful her long mousy-brown hair was when it twisted in soft waves around her waist. How he shared her heart shaped face and blue eyes, and his humanity. Something Quincy seemed to always lack. He taught him how to hunt for food and shoot his pistol. He had a surprisingly good aim, despite his age.
He taught him to shoot to kill under most circumstances. If one of those creatures came near him, resilient Francis had no problem taking it out in a shot or two. Quincy had tried tirelessly to desenstated his boy so he grew up nothing like his Mother. His mother, who was too sweet and pure to survive in such a state as this.
She would be proud, He thought to himself. Or, at least he hoped she would be proud of him and the young man their boy was turning into.
Francis had to learn the trade. Cheser was of very little help to him these days. He was better off sitting back and watching Quincy kill those things with bated breath than trying to jump in and help, lest he get too worked up and be out of commission for at least a week.
To put it plainly. Quincy was setting up Francis to be a hunter. His partner, once Chester’s heart decided it had enough of the mercury he was pumping into it.
Chester didn't like it either, understandably. He had always been independent and spoke his mind no matter the circumstance, which made conversations painfully awkward but so perfectly and uniquely Chester.
Chester had once been so angry at the world, and rightfully so. Why would God make such a spellbinding creature such as Chester just to want to snuff that life right out of his at the ripe age of thirty?
“Why did it have to happen to me? Me of all people? It really isn't fair, is it? I'm just…waiting to die, isn't that fun?” Chester had grumbled angrily to him late one night years ago. Years before he finally just accepted that death was coming and there was nothing he could do to stop it, so he shouldn't just stop moping around about it.
“I dunno. ‘pose it's ain’t too fair.” Quincy had murmured back, ideally picking at a scab in his thumb. He hated having those conversations back then, and when they infrequently came up now, they hurt more.
Chester could have had everything. He grew up wealthy, had a girl he was set to marry. And he just had to go and ruin it all. He fancied a boy at his university, and suddenly, everything he had been promised was ripped right from his hands by his parents. He had very little now, but he didn't seem to care half as much as he used to.
He had grown accustomed to the less than ideal sleeping arrangements and the questionable things they ate. He missed the clothes and his nice goose feather pillows the most. A small treat would often be purchased by Quincy on the rare occasion they were in town, and that seemed to keep Chester’s bickering at bay.
Lemon candies were his favorite, always had been. Sour with a formidable amount of sweet that left his fingers tinged yellow and coated in a sticky white grain. They were cheap enough that Quincy didn't mind buying them. He always had them on hand, and he rarely saw Chester without one. They truly kept his complaints at bay.
Traveling had a bore the last few weeks. The land they rode on was dead. Very few animals seemed to inhabit it, which meant less food. Less animals also, thankfully, meant fewer vampires. The ones they had killed they left to rot on the hard, hot ground. There wasn't a building in sight. Nowhere to turn in the bodies. Nowhere to earn a couple bucks, as much as they desperately needed.
“We should stop for the night. No sense in traveling in the dark when there's nowhere to go,” Quincy says gruffly.
His eyes drift towards the white wolf sitting off in the distance. It was back, and like every time before, he couldn't look away from its piercing blue eyes. It was the third time that month alone he had seen it and it seemed to get a kick out of tormenting him. Torturing him by looking at him with oddly familiar eyes.
Francis is asleep almost as soon as his head hits his knapsack, curling into himself to stave off the chill prickling his body despite the fire roaring just feet away from him.
Quincy didn't turn his head, nor move at all when Chester set himself down beside him under a tree with a weary huff. He couldn't look at him. His heart would ache, as it had so many nights before. His pale skin seemed to glow under the firelight, his ginger curls more emphasized by the warm flames. The fire gave his skin a nice warm, healthy look to it. One that Quincy had almost forgotten was possible after spending years watching his friend become paler by the day. He remembered the days when his skin wasn't porcelain cream and his freckles were more prominent than his aching eye bags. That was a long time ago. Those days were gone.
“I can practically hear your thoughts churning in that head of yours. Night time makes you think real good, doesn't it?” Chester asks with the slightest smirk, not moving his head from where it rested on his arms, supported by his boney knees, his eyes never looking away from the dancing marmalade flames.
It was true, when night came, Quincy’s head did spin. It was overwhelming. But it was certainly pleasant to have Chester there keeping him company, even if he really wasn't aware of the war ravinging his mind at that very moment.
“Suppose so.” Quincy mumbles, his voice almost sounding soft.
“Mh…” Chester nods slightly in agreement, letting out another weary huff. This time, his eyes drift towards Quincy.
Those piercing, weary sage green eyes stare directly at him, and Quincy doesn’t think he's ever looked more beautiful than he did in that moment. It couldn’t be possible, truly. Chester doesn't speak at first but Quincy can tell just by looking into his eyes that what he wants to say is a desperate plea, a cry for help. Looking into those eyes was like looking directly into Chester's soul, his very being. And yet, he still couldn't grasp it. Grasping not what he wanted, but what he so desperately needed. Maybe it was love, affection, just support. He didn't know.
“I’m tired, Quince.” Chester says simply at least with the softest most subtle sigh once he finishes.
Quincy’s heart aches at that. It throbs, making him feel sick. He feels helpless, useless.
“I know.” Quincy says finally. That's all he says. It's all he can say. Because, he does know. He does know that Chester is tired. And it's not the type of tired Quincy is used to feeling after traveling all day. It's a tired, a weariness that transcends all of that. It's nothing that Quincy has ever experienced and it's nothing that Chester could ever really describe. It's an aching, constant sort of tired. A type of tiredness where you're painfully exhausted but can’t sleep even though you so desperately want it. Need to. It’s tortuous.
So did Quincy really know? No. He didn't. But he had to try. For the sake of Chester he had to try and understand. Just enough to keep his head above water. And right now? He was barely treading in it.
They just sat there then, glancing over at each other on occasion. If their eyes weren't on each other they were on the flames swirling in front them. Quincy stands rather abruptly, letting out a stiff sigh, cocking his head towards his knapsack.
“Gonna get some sleep. You should too. Got a lot of riding to get through tomorrow.” He says almost stiffly, already striding away.
Chester simply nods, his eyes looking out into the vast plains.
“She was real good, Ches. My Mina. Couldn't protect her though,” Quincy murmurs suddenly, eyes seeming to be fixed on the deep rich black of the night sky.
“Quinc, she was sick. There was nothing you could have done. You did what you could to make her comfortable, you know?,” Chester says, his voice just barely above a whisper, but insistent still.
Quincy pushes himself up so he’s sitting, dragging his hands over his face with a weary, ragged sigh.
“She just took so d*mn long to die..” He rasps.
Chester’s breath catches in his throat, and he can feel his body tense just minutely.
“She was so beautiful..all plump and rosy - and then it was just all gone. She was gone.”
Cheser sighs, standing up from his spot under the tree and placing himself next to Quincy. “She must have been pretty great, if she could tame a beast like you. That's a hard feat.” Chester says with a small smirk.
“Yeah…yeah, she was good. Real good.” Quincy says simply, before he sighs and lies back down, pulling his jacket closer for warmth. That was probably the only thing Quincy would say that wasn't devoid of emotion for the few months at least. It was nice for a change, really. It reminded Chester on occasion that Quincy did in fact have some humanity left in him, despite everything.
“Sometimes I think I’m going crazy, Ches. I see things that feel like her. But it ain’t her.” Quincy mumbles.
“Vampires?” Chester suggests
“No. The wolf. I keep seeing it. It follows me ‘round and it has for years. It's got her eyes.” Quincy breathes. The white wolf. He’d seen it a handful of times after Mina had died, but more recently, it seemed to take more of an interest in him. It doesn't want anything, at least it doesn't seem to. It doesn't look hungry, or aggressive. It just stares. It stares at him with the same sad stormcloud eyes that Mina bore. Sad. That's what it was. It looked sad, like it was mourning something. It wouldn't have spooked him so bad if it weren't for those eyes. And its coat.Wolves were not particularly rare in El Paso, but a white one? That was almost unheard of.
“I think we're all going a little crazy out here, Quincy.” Chester murmurs. It's silent after that. Maybe Quincy was agreeing with him. Maybe he had said something Quincy didn't want to admit was true. Quincy had always had the tendency to shut down when someone other than him was right about something. Which wasn't often, really.
Chester sighs, settling himself back onto the ground and willing himself to try and get a minute of sleep that night.
The peace didn't last long, as it almost never did when they spent the night in the fields. Quincy was first to wake at the faint rustling coming from across the dead grass and dirt. His breath came in quiet adrenaline-filled bursts as he stiffly reached for the pistol that lay beside him, his piercing eyes never leaving the general area that had woken him so abruptly in the first place.
Despite the fact that he had been doing this for years, cold sweat glistened at the edge of his forehead, his grip on the gun tightening enough it made his hands shake. Tonight felt different and he wasn't sure if he was ready to face whatever was out there. Not tonight. Not after the way Chester had looked at him so pleadingly. It felt different. It felt different because for the first time in eight years, he felt like he actually had something to lose.
He felt the deep ache in his chest again, his eyes flicking towards the other man, who was still sleeping peacefully. If not for himself, if not for Francis, he had to do it for Chester. Chester, who’s life had been nothing but difficult but someone he found the will to persevere. He shouldn't have died. He should have died a long time ago but he didn't. He was alive because of Quincy. He was willing himself to breathe another day because of the painful dedication he had felt towards him for years, yet he would never admit it. He couldn't admit it.
He might spend the rest of his god-forsaken life waiting for me. Quincy thinks. Maybe deep down he had been waiting for Chester, or maybe he just didn't want to accept the fact that he loved him at all. The way he had felt for so many years had been affection, hadn't it? The way he had once felt towards Mina was how he had felt toward Chester. Every time he felt that feeling creeping up on him he would push down, deep down in his chest. Now he couldn’t push it down. He didn't want to push it down. He was acting on completely primal instincts now and he couldn't let the feelings go. He couldn't give a d*mn about himself or what the night might bring. He was going to do what he needed to do to protect his boys tonight. Even if it killed him.
He raised his gun, hands shaking as he does, breathes coming out in ragged shaky spurts. He would shoot to kill. Just like he had taught Francis.
The white wolf isn’t what he's expecting to see sitting in front of him. He doesn't think, can't think, before he pulls the trigger, the force of the shot jerking him back. Would he have shot it if he had had another second to think? If he had a second to stop and realize that it wasn't the bloodsucking creature he thought it was, would he have killed it? No. No, he didn't think he would have.
It felt wrong. He shouldn't have shot it, why did he shoot it? Primal instinct, he supposes. It had followed him for years, just watching him. Watching him with those stormcloud eyes, it had it coming…
Stormcloud eyes.
No. No, she was dead, he had seen her die. Eight years as of yesterday he had watched her die. Why were her eyes looking at him, what is this?
“Oh God, no…..no….you're supposed to be dead….you were dead…” Quicny wails raggedly, his hands hovering shakily over the now lifeless body that was once so familiar to him.
“You were dead…‘m so sorry….”
He had thought she had died those eight years ago, yes. But now, her eyes stared back at him. Dull. Lifeless. He had mourned her and for what? It was all for nothing, wasn't it? She had always been there, in a way. Even if it wasn't really her. Lurking in his shadows.
Judging…
Watching…
Disgraced by what her husband had turned their son into. A heartless killer just like his father was.
He doesn't register the pair of sharp teeth sinking and ripping into the juncture of his neck, nor can he stop it when he does. They had finally gotten to him, the bloodsucking creatures. In his one moment of solitude, the one moment he lets his guard down, it gets him killed.
It's Chester that shoots the thing in the head. He had never shot a gun, had never shot to kill. But that night he did. That night, for the first time, he lay by Quincy’s side, looking into his deep chestnut eyes as he had always wanted to, gripping his callused hand tightly. Under different circumstances he might have been delighted. He had given up trying to staunch the blood a long, long time ago. It broke his heart that he did.
Maybe in another life they could be happy. In another universe they could have each other in all the ways they needed to.
“I’m tired, Ches,” Quincy murmurs softly.
Chester sighs shakily.
“I know.”
His lips finally press against Quincy’s.
***
Dear Ma and Pa,
I wholeheartedly wish I was not writing this letter under such circumstances. I want nothing more than to tell you this in person, but nevertheless, I cannot.
Crawford took solid care of me for the short time we had together. I’d like to think he turned me into quite the gentleman. Just like you, pa. He was a good man. I was mildly aware of your close bond with him, and I envy a friendship like that. It’s been a year since he's passed, and I’ve been on my own since then. I’d like to think I’m getting along fine without him. He’s buried right next to you. I thought you would have wanted that, pa. To be close to him permanently. He’s real lucky he gets to meet Ma now, too. You always made her out to be such a lovely woman.
To say I’ve moved on is an understatement. And what you’ve told me about Ma, I think her heart would be all a flutter. I met a girl just past three years ago now. Pretty little lady named Iris. Reminds me a lot of Ma, just based on what you told me about her. She’s real sweet and quiet-like. She’s a seamstress. Makes real pretty dresses. And she fixes up my shirts real nice too. She named our boy after you, Pa. It suits him real nice. He’s got the legacy to live up to. You were just swell and I know he will be too. I hope you're proud of me, Pa. Ma, I hope you’re proud of the person your man has turned me into.
- With love, Francis