[P] [M] Oh Father, tell me, do we get what we deserve?

WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

Specifically, this thread is marked mature because of: suicide, language.
Ooc: lmao John you fucking suck, asshole

Waking from nightmares might just be the shittiest thing. His stupid, dead no-good heart beating frantically, as though it were being chased itself. What did it fucking matter, let the nightmare catch him. Wasn't like he was worth saving.

<"Get up."> Came the voice, lingering so close by his ear and his eyes popped open angrily to Pontifex's no-nonsense expression.

"Fuck off." He snarled, rolling to put his back to her.

A low, feminine growl rolled out close by. Good, he was wearing thin on her just as he was doing on Wayne, hopefully they'd forget their insane plot to keep him contained.

<"I zaid... get UP!">

John found himself tumbling through the air as the little bitch upended him from his bed onto the floor. Unceremoniously dumped from his toasty warm nest.

"Shit! Fuckin' hell." A torrent of profanity spewed from him, all aimed at the sunshine-eyed girl that towered over his slack body, the bed sheets and pillow clenched in her fists.

<"You are NOT ztaying in bed all day again."> John tried to tune her out, shifting onto his ass and grabbing at the bed furs she held. Pontifex held them up high, out of his reach. What was it with this fucking kid, thinking she could boss him about and butt her way into his life when he didn't ask for nothing no-how.

"Ah wish you'd up'n leave me th'fuck alone y'interferin' cow." John snapped, aiming to wound. He was vindicated when she gasped and enjoyed the tremulous quiver of her whiskers. The watery filling of her eyes. She stood firm though, her face hardening with ruthless determination.

<"You are going to do zomething with yourself today."> Her voice was hard, and she backed away as John dragged his rotting carcass from the ground. The sheets and pillow fell from her grasp and up came her hands, her body shifting to a ready stance to fight him. This was what he did, bullied and battered his sickening self hatred against his niece, poured it onto her until she faced him with a fearful agony.

Dimming her beautiful fire with each and every second she spent in his wretched company. He was utterly irredeemable.

He was losing his fucking mind here. Spinning in endless circles, faced constantly with daily reminders of his failures. Where was he, where had he gone. The man he'd been, who was this twisted, sick son of a bitch that spoke to a young girl with such violent hatred, who hit a woman with the intent to cause pain.

Back and forth and back and forth. Around and around they went. Snapping and seething, and he couldn't even recall half of what he said. But he knew the moment he had won, he drove her to swearing at him.

<"Oh! You are just 'orrible. Connard!>

"Hah!" Barking with bitter, tilting laughter, John reached for something, anything to smash, to break, and upended his shitty dining table, scattering the crappy, chipped cutlery and plate-wear to bounce across the floor.

"FUCKIN' LEAVE THEN." He roared loud enough to make his own ears ring.

<"NO!"> She shrieked back at him, tears rolling down her pretty, pale face. Shame was burning, somewhere in his throat, behind his ears, down deep in his guts; And still he couldn't stop himself.

"Just let m'fuckin' die then!! Y'selfish bitch! Keepin' m'alive just 'cause yer don't wanna face th'world." Breathing heavily, John realized he was shaking,

<"No!!"> Pontifex broke down sobbing, her head cradled in her hands.

His chest hurt. There was a pounding in his ears as his heart raced unevenly, skipping beats frantically.

All at once, the piss and vinegar was sucked clean out of him, and he pure collapsed as if the Lord had struck him then and there. Legs folding beneath him, he plonked his ass right there on the wooden floor. The only sound beyond the throbbing in his ears was the broken sounds of her weeping until the scrape of the door dragged his head dully to peer at it.

Before he could even say a word Pontifex was gathering her things and pushing out past Wayne,

<"I cannot... not today, 'Ee ies just.. zo.. zo terrible. Mon Dieu. I cannot, I am leaving. You look after 'im today. I just... non, non non..."> Then she was gone, leaving him in the trashed room with Wayne and the faint scent of flowers.

Ooc here
Sneaking paws had a little bit of spring in his step, but the more he neared the Winthrop's house, to which was effectively more of a prison, the more Wayne sobered.

High lifted knees put him closer and closer to the split-section bungalow, and with each pace taken, the light in his eyes from the mischievous night before drained from him. Fluid motions grew rigid and the impish expression that once often painted him fell down, into the snow at his feet, to be forgotten. The building loomed, a shadow in the night, with the flicker of light from within. With the hour, that meant someone was awake.

With any luck, it would only be Pontifex and there would be a smooth transitions between wardens. With the racket that was raising through the walls in the house, he squared his jaw. Today would be a rough one. Rather than taking his time any longer, the man burst into a jog that soon turned into a sprint with the shriek that he heard. That John was just about dumb enough to do anything right now, and Wayne would have it on his head if anything happened to that poor girl that just wanted to help.

Slick steps layered in ice had him stumbling to the door, his hand caught on the wall to top him from meeting the earth. One he reached the handle, he wasted no time in pulling the threshold open and letting in the cold.

Ponti didn't bother with Wayne, and she filled her hands with whatever she'd brought and made her way out the door. Brows lifted in concern found her, the wet trails on her face glittering in the dim light as she forced through him. He stepped to the side, having no desire to stop her as she spoke. It was a mistake to have left her for the night. That was on him, “I got'em. I got'em for a'long while,” He lifted his voice to her with compassion in his tone, so she could know that she could take as long as she needed, but fury wrinkled his features as he eyed the sorry shit heaped up on the floor.

The clap of the door sounded gently behind him. He wouldn't invite more of John's chaos.

Slow paces brought him across the room, his paws scraping against the floor as he did everything in his power to measure himself before a storm. His jaw pushed forward, the black of his chin jutting out as his mind rolled through the scenarios. John didn't have it in him to make sense of anything, so it was entirely up to Wayne to employ logic here. Logic where it likely wouldn't do any good. It hadn't yet. Why would it?

A foot brushed wooden ware out of his path, his limbs already working by a new instinct to keep anything he could out of John's reach. He wasn't about to beat the man to death. That was, of course, what he'd want. Alternatively, he'd be damned if he wouldn't defend Pontifex in a way that would have her safe. If she ever had the boldness to dare offer her help after this.

Crouching in front of the auburn man, piercing blue searched for the stale green of lifeless eyes. Knees peaked like mountains, he was bent over so far, and the cant of his head implied the overwhelming presence of an anger that even he might not be able to stifle, try as he might. Left, to right, his head tilted on his neck, trying to get a good angle of what had happened without asking. No luck. A leather gloved hand reached up to grab the maw of the death infatuated, crumpled cadaver. To look in those defeated eyes whether they looked back or not, and find truth where in the shame there stood, “You lay a'hand on her?”

Honesty, today, was very important. Wayne's expression said that quietly. He couldn't have claimed to know what happened this morning without him here, but there was screaming and crashing when he'd walked up to the door. He'd believe just about anything he heard from John's mouth, though he was inclined to believe it all might be a lie. Just so the Winthrop could get one step closer to a good excuse to find himself buried.

Words were short, curt, and quickly spoken. Wayne wouldn't doubt the bullshit that John might be willing to pull to get himself alone at the moment,. He'd already decided that if John dared to harm her with his hand, there were four solid lessons on Wayne's clenched fist that were bound to give John a reason to rethink his plan of action. Pontifex shouldn't have to take on this idiot in the ways John made her, but Wayne? Wayne could endure, and he would for all of eternity, if he could. His own personal hell, just for the sake of keeping this shit stain from smearing himself all over the lives of those around him, before he did any real damage.

[Image: Wz7hnJ2.png]
Ooc: lmao John you fucking suck, asshole

The sound of her footsteps crunching hurriedly away through the snow were the bells of shame ringing, ringing, ringing in his ears. He didn't need to look up to know the racing thoughts that Wayne paced to contain. John was the one with his fist smashed onto the 'asshole' button. Keeping his peepers down on the dirty floor, the dust motes floating in the air, dancing with a carefree lightness that he found himself jealous of. They didn't have to care about nothing.

It was an acid in his throat, burning away at anything he might have said. Every now and then he caught the flash of Wayne's toes as they paced by his periphery. Why did dying have to feel so rotten, why couldn't it be quick? Like Ronnie's own, no fuss, no muss, just a moment of pain and then nothing at all.

Sounded mighty fine to him.

Wayne grabbed hold of his chops, and John set up no resistance to the tugging of his face. Not even a wrinkling of lips or a flame of fiery anger to push forwards. The Texan had enough for the both of them. John's own bloodshot eyes were tired and dead, shame-filled in a dull, worthless sort of way, holding his friend's through no action of his own.

His head lay lax, no strength to hold himself upright at the neck if not for the holding hand. Whatever he said, he was a liar and a bastard. Had he laid a hand on her? Not today, not this time. But she'd bruises from his flailing fists, sore spots and scars on her heart from his bitter, terrible words.

A small burst of activity, John wrenched his jaw from the pale-fingered grasp, gathering up a sense of energy to set a growl rolling in his throat,

"An what if I did? Chu'gon do'bout it?" His nares flared, drawing in the scent of drink, and fresh pussy, and that of his fancy-dancy other niece. What a time was apparently had on Wayne's 'night of rest'. Wasn't his sister-in-law going to just shit herself at the idea of her primp and proper daughter bedding one of the fucking rangy-ass dirty buckaroos.

Johnathan laughed, all busted and hoarsely spat, "You fuckin' hypocrite."

Go on, hit me, keep on hitting, jackass.

He didn't even brace himself.

Ooc here
Some folks got what they earned, and some folks got what they deserved. John didn't get either.

Pale fingers rolled tendons tight, building a primed fist that reared back and hurled forward. He didn't much care whether John reeled or not, before or after his knuckles buried in that auburn jaw with a crack. Wayne let him fall, let him topple, let him rile or wither or whatever the spineless coward at his front was about to do, but what Wayne was not going to give him was what he wanted. He got one for his crimes as a reminder.

One clock to the jaw had Wayne rising calmly to his feet. Only one for Pontifex, who didn't deserve to suffer this yellow man, though she chose to. Only one for the mouth that ran and ran, just looking for the fool who was dumb enough to get roped in to being pissed off enough to give the bastard what he wanted. He didn't get to die. Not the way John wanted, and sure as hell not like Ronnie, who had fought for his them all.

Wayne wasn't at the point of caring any longer what John had to say. What hot horse-shit would poor out of his mouth, just looking to poke the bear. He didn't care what John thought of him, and he didn't care what John thought he was going to do. There was very little concern for what the other laughed on about. Wayne lived his life and did as he pleased with it. He didn't owe anyone shit, much less an explanation. More importantly, he wasn't about to give the emerald-eyed man any ammunition. Let him think what he would. Rumors were just as thick as avoided truths in Del Cenere, and the image Wayne carried here didn't chain him down.

Not like the one John was making for himself.

That kind of damage control wasn't on Wayne list of things he was interested in doing, yet he was just as willing as to ensure that John got a good taste for it. When the Elegido would finally click, and snap out of this if he survived it, there'd be work for him to do.

“Get up,” Wayne huffed and gestured to the couch, more of a demand than an offer of comfort. From there, whether the brat listened or not, Wayne made it his point to begin righting the room he'd cleaned up not but days prior. The rope that was more John's than it was Cochise's dangled at his hip. He could be bound again, if he wasn't interested in listening today, “I'm gonna get cleaned up. Yer gonna sit down. I ain't askin',” He mouthed quietly from across the room, his hands slowly piling with the wooden dishes.

[Image: Wz7hnJ2.png]
Ooc: lmao John you fucking suck, asshole

The Wyatt's clenched fist cracked him a good one right in the kisser, and set his head to spinning like a top. Blood sprayed from his nose, from where his teeth sliced against the inside of his cheek. John let himself roll with it, absorbing all the energy Wayne had to give, and let it knock him flat against the floorboards, taking another blow to the noggin from the uncaring wood. His brains sloshed about in his skull.

White noise filled his aching head, and fuck if his vision didn't go all bright and shiny at the edges, ringed with black.

One was where Wayne stopped though, and John lay there in a useless heap on the floor, blood dripping from his nose and dribbling from his mouth. All his poison dried up for now. Sure there'd probably be more to come later, but for now John was all spent and empty again.

The point of it laid there though with John, as his head spun and spun. One for his niece who he was a raging bastard to. Only she was too kindly and polite to belt him a good one herself.

"Fuck off." He muttered, voice thin and breathless to the command given him, but dragged himself upright regardless. Heaving himself to the couch, he plonked down on it with a grunt, still dripping blood all over the place and wiped his nose on his arm.

For his obedient complacency though, something was ticking away there behind his eyes. some gears turning in the messed up head of his. Watching as Wayne's hands, and attention, was set upon cleaning up the mess John had caused, again.

He didn't respond to Wayne's comments about cleaning up other than to burn a hole into his pants.

Something snapped, there in his soul, and he knew he couldn't stay here no more. A prisoner in his own home, escorted everywhere he went. He needed to get away, to go somewhere else, and not even to go and off himself, just to think, for a little while in a place that didn't remind him of death and despair.

If he'd been of a mind to think anything through at all, John might have realized that Wayne was aware of the flight risk he offered. That was the trouble though, John just weren't thinking about nothing anymore.

Abruptly, the Virginian tensed and then burst from his seat on the couch, crossing the distance to the exit as fast as his feet could take him. John slammed into the door and swore as his shaking hands struggled to yank it open. Finally the fucking latch turned and he flung open the door, ready and willing to race off into the snowy landscape as fast as he could hoof it.

Ooc here
Pale eyes watched the man he called his friend fall into a heap of himself, bowled over on the floor, his own bitter words became his burden. That ever sinking, ever reaching, putrid, self-indulgence poisoned the air's taste, and it curdled in Wayne's stomach. For as long as John could only see himself, Wayne would be here. The faithful reminder that there was more than whatever it was that only John could see right in front of him. Be it a rafter and a noose, or a clenched set of knuckles, to remind him he was alive, and that it wasn't a choice.

As awful a gift as it was, Wayne knew in his depth that there was more than this.

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck you, too,” A wave of his hand reached over his shoulder and waved, the latter note a lower tone, blowing off the empty curse that was spat at him. His skin was thicker, his patience far more steady, than anything that John could rock. Not when he was prepared for it, at least.

Quiet became the room. The crackle of the fire and the gentle clatter of wooden dishes being collected filled the solemn, silent space between them, and ever so vigilantly, John never did end up in his blind spot. The dark coydog rounded the table and collected it in his hands last of all things. Flat surface faced upright once more, as it was made to, but before it was settled, John broke loose.

Ceremony had never been Wayne's strongest suit.

Tar-kissed toes kicked the table from the path of the wrangler and the escapee. From quiet to chaos, the wooden table crashed against the floor, tumbled and slid across the room. Pallid digits works deftly to put the rope at his waist, into his hands, a lasso fashioned steadfastly. A wild swing brought the rope over his head, sailing in circles as the lasso built momentum, while John's hands dumbly fumbled at his own door.

The crack of the door meeting the wall resounded as the rope left Wayne's hand. It burst with a viper's furious offense and reached toward the escaping body of El Elegido as he scrambled out into the morning's frosty grip, “Don't think so, bud,” Wayne muttered to himself, the words far kinder than the actions that were aimed at ripping John off of his own feet before he even had a chance at freedom.

In his hand, the rope pulled tight. Braced at the feet, he leaned back with a wrench and felt the breeze that came between his victim and the snow laden earth. Like any ranch hand, he reeled the rope up in loops over his arm, taking away it's length one arms reach at a time. It wouldn't be long before John's feet could be seen through the open door, and when they were, Wayne relented to the notion of burdening the chair with the coyote's body so he could wash in peace, “Can't trust ya, John,” He muttered, pulling the rope and stepping toward the door in tandem.

[Image: Wz7hnJ2.png]
Ooc: lmao John you fucking suck, asshole

Chaos and calamity set into motion behind him. Crashes that tapped at his edge of his awareness, but none of it held any drag for him, John's eyes and aim were firmly planted on his freedom. Even the whisper of Wayne's words were left behind as the door peeled itself over with a bang loud enough to wake the dead from their sleep.

In the end, John made it barely a half dozen paces from his door.

Coiled rope wrapped about his lifted foot and though his broken fear gave him wings, he couldn't fly high enough to escape the tugging back on the figurative chain. Balance upset, John toppled easily. A whoof of breath exploded from his lungs and his chin met the cover of powdery snow settled outside his door. His brains sloshed again inside his skull stunning him solid for several seconds, much as Wayne's fist to the face had done.

He was dragged through the dirty snow like a sack of taters.

A man possessed, the moment his wits came back, John was clawing at the snow and dirt beneath. Catching himself on the door jam, his claws dug into the aging wood and stone.

"No!" He burst out, flailing wildly on his line, a hooked salmon flopping in vain. "Lemme go!"

Panic ripped its way up his throat, putting emotion to his voice. Setting his hoarse, gravelly tones full of pleading,

"Please, lemme go!" Flipping his way onto his back, still holding onto his doorjamb for dear life, John's eyes were wide and ringed in white. Fearful of the very room he was being dragged back into.

"Ah gotta leave. Ah can't stay here no more. Ah need tuh go somewhere.. somewhere else.." Everywhere he looked, he saw Ronnie's lifeless corpse.

Breathing heavily against the pull of the rope, the taste of blood lingered on his tongue. Hammering in his chest, his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

"Ah promise Ah won't do nuthin'... Ah just gotta go..." He panted out desperately.

SW: Bandinage - WotD: Pertain/Passe-Partout
It didn't come as much of a surprise that John would meet the frozen earth with a thud nor was it much of a surprise when he found his more dramatic self and reached for anything that he could grab. The frame of the door was his victim and Wayne's planted feet kept him upright, and the tight coil of the rope between his palm and elbow kept the tension. The retired ranger wasn't aiming to pull his legs off of John's body, but the green-eyed man needed to know he wasn't going anywhere.

He wasn't going anywhere until the truth of his escape had found words.

A passe-partout to peace broke the thick air between them, and John's heavy exhales rattled in the now quiet room.

“Well, dammit, John. Why didn't y'just say so, ya' big dummy,” In that voice that had grown used to the crushing burden of John's psychosis, there was a semblance of that badinage that he carried so ofte before.

Wayne's braced stance eased up as did his shoulders, the rope held just tightly enough so that he could tug it again if he needed to, but release was in his eye, “Ah can do that. They's gotta be rules, though, John,” Reeling the rope around his forearm, he paced nearer to the bedraggled, ill-fated brother at his paws, and offered a strong hand for him to right himself.

“I can't trust'ya. Y'know why. So's, I've gotta have sum 'nsurance, if y'will.”

Distance enough was left in Wayne's words so that John might have the thought to protest, as if he was given a choice that pertained to what was going to happen. Rather than wait too long, however, Wayne's hand shot for John's shoulder, to whip him around and roll both wrists back so that he could tie him fast, “I need'ta clean up. Y'need to gather y'self. I'm gonna put ya'here," Dragging him as peacefully as John allowed, Wayne moved over to a familiar chair that was righted with one foot. It's legs rattled against the ground as John was put in it, "Think 'bout what ya'need. We'll pack'n be gone as soon as'yer ready."

[Image: Wz7hnJ2.png]
Ooc: lmao John you fucking suck, asshole

He'd bitten his tongue somewhere along the line and the thick tang of copper choked him, foaming out to bubble from his lips along with his saliva. Heated breaths whooshed from his burdened lungs. When had it gotten so hard to breathe, had he ever drawn an inhale free of pain? It all spiraled around and around tightly, cutting him off from the world outside, from the voices of friends and the love of family. A wall was built there, leaving him a man to stand, so he imagined, alone.

Grief cared not at all for the open hands of others and suffered him instead to linger in his anguish.

The familiarity of repartee came from a long way away, and John stared back uncomprehendingly as his ask was acquiesced to without argument. Slackened came the rope's tug upon his foot, setting his appendage back onto the dusty ground.

His hands unclenched themselves from the wooden jamb -- the deep grooves of his claws embedded into its thick embrace testified to the fervency of his hold. Silent, green watched warily as the ex-ranger approached, and took the hand presented to him as assistance, hauling him upright to his still lassoed feet.

"Rules..." Finally his hoarse, cracked voice came again, parroting what was said with a vapid, shallow enunciation. Neither arguing nor presenting much of life at all. Dull, broken, was the Winthrop son.

Gently manhandled by his brother-in-arms, John was bound and trussed, a Christmas day turkey ripe for roasting and couldn't utter so much as a attempt at protest.

A slave to the grave, John allowed Wayne to lead him in metaphorical chains to plonk his ass on the wooden chair, easily set straight.

"Think 'bout what ya'need. We'll pack'n be gone as soon as'yer ready."

Slowly his head turned up from staring at the floor and floating out in his mental cosmos.

What was his promises worth anyways. He couldn't keep them straight from one day to the next. He'd promised Ronnie that after Ginger he'd not raise a hand to a woman again. Pontifex's bruised cheek came to mind, and the careful way she'd moved for a while after the first episode.

No, his words were worthless to promise anything.


Fractionally the ruddy head bobbed.


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