Archive of Our Own

They’re both of them too old to be digging graves. By the time most of the people in their profession have reached even Roach’s age they’ve been hardened by the sun and the earth, enough that the back breaking work is but a matter of any other task in their day.

Izzy and Roach have had no such experience, and even a few years into their posting Izzy finds himself wilting in the heat by mid morning, his back and shoulders aching as he pries another clod of dirt from the earth and hauls it over his shoulder.

The rhythm helps. Finding a stride he can hit, so that the pain comes as less of a surprise. It’s the sort of process he can lose himself in - shovel blade to the ground, press down with his boot, lever the hard packed earth up, and lift it up and out. He does it over and over again while he listens to Roach hum, breathless as he is but determined to fill their days with some sort of music. 

It’s why when Roach calls his name, it takes him a few moments to slow. He’s surprised to find the sun high in the sky, and he carefully eases his foot off the shovel.

“I said, how are you doing, little man?”

Roach knows his process, knows to slowly draw him out of the trance he sinks into on digging days. Izzy takes a deep breath and rolls aching shoulders. His shirt is soaked with sweat, and he grits his teeth as he feels the damp fabric shift against his overheated skin. 

“Alright,” he says softly.

Roach nods and reaches out to lift the hat from Izzy’s head. Izzy doesn’t have time to figure out what’s happening before water is abruptly dumped over him. He gasps as the cold shocks him back into the present. The shovel drops to the bottom of the waist high hole they’re standing in, and Izzy freezes for a moment before turning to face Roach.

“You fuckin’ shit-”

“You looked like you were getting too hot, dizzy Izzy,” grins Roach, still holding the water bucket. 

If it was less hot, Izzy would pounce on him for that. They’d roll around in the dirt for a while and Roach would let Izzy win, let him straddle his hips down the bottom of that hole and pin his arms while he bit and sucked bruises into his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. 

But Izzy struggles in the heat. And there’s an edge of worry to Roach’s playfulness that makes Izzy reach out and swat ineffectually at him instead.

“Cheeky bastard,” he says.

Roach catches his hand and kisses it.

“You know me well,” he replies, “now wait while I fetch more water. You need to drink.”

For all of Roach’s antics, he takes a little longer to haul himself out of the hole as well. Izzy watches as he takes a moment to prepare himself, arms straining to push himself up and out. 

Digging days are hard on both of them, but they knew that would be the case when the two of them arrived here. It’s better than the alternative.

At least it’s a small town. People don’t die every day, not here.

The two of them drink from the bucket Roach brings back with cupped hands, splashing as much of it as they can over themselves to keep cool. They eat things Roach doesn’t have to cook, dried meat and hard biscuits, and a few pieces of candied orange peel that they carefully pick out of their dwindling jar. They sit on the edge of the hole, and Izzy holds the sugary peel on his tongue and savours the way it dissolves. 

Neither of them talk much. It’s too hot to try and think of words to fill the silence, and they have their hands full trying to manage the task of eating and swatting at flies. Roach continues humming under his breath, snatches of tunes he’s learned from his past lives - some of them Izzy recognises, some of them are unfamiliar both in tune and style, songs from a different place entirely, one Roach seldom talks about save in the brief moments after he wakes trembling from a nightmare.

It can’t all have been bad, though. His voice is warm and wistful when he hums those tunes, holding them close so that he doesn’t forget.

When they’ve eaten and the ache has had time to drain from their limbs, Roach grabs Izzy’s hat from the side of the hole. Izzy ducks his head so Roach can place it back on.

The afternoon passes in a similar haze - Izzy’s already tired and sore, and soreness quickly returns along his arms, and up and down his back. 

Just a little more, he reminds himself, while Roach switches to whistling. 

The last few inches of earth are the hardest. It's impossible to tell how much more you have left, when you're aching to be done, desperate to pause and rest now that the end seems to close.

The side of the grave is just about over Izzy’s head at this point, and he has to strain overtaxed muscles to get the earth out. It’s an act of focus every time, not to give into the instinct to flag, to stop and catch his breath.

“Alright, Izzy?” says Roach.

Izzy realises he’s panting from the heat like a worn out dog. Summer always seems to come all at once out here. He bites back a groan when he feels a hand on his back, against the blurry dark patch between his shoulder blades.

“Drink,” says Roach, a thread of irritation in his voice, “the heat, Izzy.”

Just a few more inches of dirt, thinks Izzy, but Roach is right. He hasn’t noticed the lightheadedness creeping up on him, the dull throb of a headache growing behind his eyes.

He gulps down water and then finds he can’t stop. Roach’s hand doesn’t leave the spot where it’s resting on his back.

“What about you?” gasps Izzy once he’s done, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, undoubtedly smearing dirt all over his face, “you’re not immune.”

“Yes, Mister Hands,” teases Roach, opening his mouth and upending the bucket over his face. 

The laughter is enough momentum to carry them through those last few inches of dirt.

They scrape out the hole and groan as their shoulders protest the movement, hefting the dirt out far enough that it won’t fall back in. They work more quickly now that the end is in sight. Roach stops whistling, his breath growing ragged in his hurry. The faster they’re done, the faster they can retreat into the cool of their little house. 

Izzy tosses one last clod of earth out, then stops briefly to check that they’ve gone deep enough. Roach scrapes a protruding clump of stones from the side, levers it out, then pauses to catch his breath, nodding silently to Izzy.

Izzy takes this as his cue to sink wearily to the ground, leaning against the side of the grave to rest a moment. The sun is still in the sky - it’s late afternoon - so it’s cooler down here in their hole. He rests his head against the dirt wall and closes his eyes, his chest heaving as he waits for his heartbeat to slow down.

They’re better at this now. When they started, they’d finish at sundown, slowly, pathetically clamber out of the grave, and then stagger back to the house to collapse into bed. 

These days it’s easier. Which is not to say it’s easy. But they manage well enough.

Roach comes and sits next to him with a tired sigh, and it’s pleasant here. They’re far enough down that the damp earth at his back is cold, and Izzy doesn’t mind Roach resting his cheek against his shoulder. The sun makes the light behind his eyelids a reddish colour, and he watches the strange specks of light dance in front of him while he listens to Roach’s breaths slow down and ease. They stay down there until the sweat on their skin begins to dry, and then Roach clears his throat.

Izzy opens one eye.

“What?” he huffs.

“Come on, Izzy. We will have plenty of time to sleep down here one day. The ladies will be waiting for us.”

“Hmm.”

Roach runs the back of his knuckles against Izzy’s arm.

“Come on, little man. Or I will climb out and leave you down here.”

Izzy gets up at that, but he grumbles the whole way. Six feet is just enough for Roach to see over, and just too high for Izzy to be able to scramble out effectively. Roach braces his hands and Izzy steps into his interlinked palms, groaning loudly as he pulls himself out with arms that have long since been done for the day. He pulls Roach up with him, and the two of them make their way slowly back to the house.

Roach nudges him forwards as he veers off to the side, heading over to the little shelter they’ve erected for their chickens.

“I’ll go fetch them some water,” says Izzy, but he finds himself stopped by a gentle hand on his chest.

“Go inside, Izzy,” says Roach, his voice gentle, “please.”

Izzy sighs in frustration. They’ve had enough of these fights - in the early days, they’d squabble until they were exhausted, insistent on standing in front of every obstacle the other would encounter, determined to be the one to save the other. 

They’re too tired for that now. They know their limits. Izzy knows he needs to nod off at their rough wooden table for a few minutes before he can do anything else today. 

He heads inside and sighs at the abrupt drop in temperature once he steps into the shade. Roach wanders to the pump with the empty bucket swinging from his hand, letting the afternoon heat wash over him, familiar and yet not. He washes at the pump, taking his time to savour the cool water, taking a moment to close his eyes and draw in a deep breath. 

Then his eyes fly open, and he grins.

“My ladies!” he calls in a loud sing-song, “did you miss us while we were gone?”

He lugs the bucket over and grabs his bag of feed, and laughs as the sound of clucking grows louder.

“Ah, so eager my loves,” he says as the hens crowd around his feet, pecking at the ground in anticipation. 

He tips the bucket into the wide, shallow tray their chickens like to sit in when the weather turns hot, and then scatters seed around the floor of the pen, watching in satisfaction as his beloved ladies cluck louder, squawking happily as they eat. 

He takes the time to check for eggs, pleased to find four of them waiting for him, still warm. He turns their brown shells over in his fingers while he ponders what he’ll make with them tonight. Something simple. They’re running low on practically everything at this point, but he’ll make it work. 

Back inside the house, Izzy’s sitting at the table with his head pillowed on his arms. Roach wets a rag, wrings it out, then comes and places it against the back of Izzy’s neck. Izzy hisses quietly, his shoulders tensing for a moment before he goes slack, exhaling in a rush of air.

“‘nks,” he whispers.

Roach holds the rag there for a while, kneading lightly at the back of Izzy’s neck while Izzy groans with relief. The summer always hits sudden, and it hits hard, and while the heat is as familiar as home to Roach, Izzy suffers. It seems to sap his strength more easily with every passing year. But of course, with every passing year Izzy gets more stubborn, and so it seems they’ll be at this for a while yet.

Roach wets the rag again, then gently coaxes Izzy’s face off the table. His eyes are half lidded, and Roach chuckles quietly as Izzy leans his face into the cool, damp cloth.

“Ah, little man, you are filthy,” says Roach, holding his jaw in one hand while he cleans the sweat and the dirt off Izzy’s face. Izzy’s eyes fall shut completely, but a smile curls the corners of his mouth. 

“There,” says Roach, “now you are clean enough for me to kiss.”

Izzy tilts his face up, and Roach captures his lips.

*

They have potatoes and eggs for dinner, flavoured with the last of their bacon. They’ll need to go into town soon for more supplies, thinks Roach, as he scrapes every last bit of grease off the bacon wrapping.

Just as he finishes with the cooking, the door opens and a familiar figure wanders in from outside.

“How’s it going out there, Nate?” says Izzy, not looking up from where he’s mending one of Roach’s shirts at the table.

“I notice ye haveny specified precisely what it is, so I’m gony pick for ye,” says Buttons, “found a wee heron this morning who needed some help coolin’ down. She got lost. Lots o' birds gettin' lost 'round these parts. On account o' all the ghosts, ye see."

“I hope not,” says Roach, squinting out the window, “I would rather not have to deal with ghosts in the - Nathaniel.”

Buttons blinks wide blue eyes at Roach’s sudden shift in tone.

“Where is your hat? The top of your head is all red - come here-”

“I was gettin’ tae that,” murmurs Buttons, shuffling over so Roach can inspect the sunburned top of his head, “the heron I was speakin’ to couldny find a place under cover so I wedged my hat between a few tree branches and it made a lovely wee shade-”

“Of course you did,” sighs Roach, “sit down, you silly man.”

Buttons sinks down into the seat next to Izzy, his brows drawn into a frown like he hadn’t realised he was tired. Izzy takes the opportunity to inspect his face as well, muttering under his breath about how much of a fucking idiot Buttons is, though the hand on his jaw remains gentle. 

The three of them eat together, though Izzy and Roach are beyond their capacity for idle chatter by now. It’s been a long day. Instead, Buttons regales them with stories about the local wildlife, listing all the birds he’s encountered since the last time he wandered into their house to share a meal. 

Afterwards, Roach applies a cool salve to Buttons’ sunburn, and though the two of them try to convince him to stay the night, he wanders out with as little fanfare as when he entered. They’re used to this by now - Buttons never stays put for very long. 

After that, it’s dark. They’re tired. Izzy pours a little water into the pan for scrubbing and wipes out their dishes while Roach tells him not to bother, that it’ll be fine ‘til morning. 

“You say that, and then next thing you know you’ll be lying in bed all day with the work undone,” grumbles Izzy, and it’s enough to make Roach chuckle quietly.

“My love, there is not a universe in existence where you would do this,” says Roach. 

It’s true - Izzy needs the structure he’s always clung to, and they both desperately need to make sure they feel useful. It’s the thing that’s kept them alive for this long, and they both know how precious and fragile a commodity this is, well enough not to waste it, even when they’re worn out and aching.

*

The next morning, Izzy wakes first, like he always does. Roach struggles to get to sleep - even these days, when there’s nothing dogging their footsteps except their chickens, clucking for more feed. He’s restless at night, and while his presence reassures Izzy enough to drag him under into the blissful embrace of slumber, Roach is often left behind, fighting his own mind for rest until he finally finds his way. 

So Izzy’s careful when he climbs out of bed. He pads out to their main room and gets the stove going - it’s early enough that the fire helps to drive out the lingering chill from the night. 

Roach takes tea, and he usually takes coffee - they have twin ceramic jars on the bench for both, although Izzy hasn’t told Roach that the coffee one has been empty for weeks. The money he would have spent on it is folded up carefully in an old handkerchief in his pocket. 

He barely feels its absence anymore, although the first few days had been hellish, his mouth cottony and dry and his head a pounding mass of pain that had left him snappish and irritable. He sips hot water from the kettle, and shrugs it off. He needs very little to survive, and the absence of morning coffee isn’t going to crush him.

By contrast, he prepares Roach’s tea with care, scooping out an amount of leaves he knows by feel at this point and setting them to steep while he steps back to check whether his lover has stirred yet.

Roach is still a sleeping mound tucked under their quilt, the wisps of his hair sticking out the only indication that it’s him. Izzy checks their supplies and discovers that they’ll be having pancakes for breakfast, because they’re out of just about everything else. 

He has the skillet warming when Roach wakes, wandering out into the main room bleary eyed and still slightly muddled. He hasn’t bothered to dress yet, so he stands there naked, with his hair still tied into a puffy ponytail on top of his head, and stretches.

“Want to do that a little closer?” Izzy says with a smirk.

Roach gives him a sleepy smile and shuffles closer for Izzy to wind a calloused palm up his back, kneading lightly at the muscles there while Roach gives a pleased hum.

“Did you manage to sleep?” says Izzy.

Roach nods as he watches Izzy pour batter into the skillet, forming wobbly pancakes that he leaves to bubble. He’s always taken a little while to wake properly; the dregs of sleep seem to cling to him for longer, trapping him in whatever dreams his mind conjures up for him when he’s unconscious. 

“Drink your tea, love.”

Roach looks into the cup pressed into his hands and sips at it dutifully, stepping into Izzy’s side and letting him wrap an arm loosely around his waist. They’re both moving a little more slowly than they normally do, still sore and achy like they always are after a digging day.

“Thank you,” he says, “this is nice.”

Izzy’s glad Roach is a little muddled in the mornings. That makes what he’s about to do much easier.

“We’ve got an easy one today,” he says, “no news from town. I’ll have to go in before it starts getting hot though, unless we want nothing but eggs for tea.”

Roach nods. It takes him a little while to summon words in the morning.

“I will tend to the grounds,” he says eventually, “they are not coming for the burial until later.”

“Don’t push yourself too hard,” says Izzy, “it’s hot out.”

Roach gives him a smile and embraces him from behind, burying his face in the crook of Izzy’s neck while Izzy tries to finish cooking. It feels like Roach is trying to catch a few extra minutes of sleep resting against his shoulder, but Izzy doesn’t mind. He flips the pancakes onto a plate and he and Roach share it, eating with their fingers. 

Then Izzy gathers up his bags and their grocery money, and Roach sets a hat on his head with a quiet reminder to stay out of the sun. Izzy re-ties Roach’s hair with a piece of string, even though Roach can do it himself. He keeps saying he’ll cut it, but Izzy suspects by this point that he doesn’t really want to.

Izzy leaves him with the ladies, who greet them both with their customary chorus of clucking, and heads off into town on foot.

It’s a pleasant enough journey this early in the morning. The sun is only just coming up, and the road is fairly easy travelling. It takes him about an hour of walking if he keeps up a good pace, and really Izzy quite enjoys the journey. It’s by no means a busy town in the first place, and the road is usually deserted - or if there are travellers, they’re mounted and pass him by quickly. Sometimes he’ll be offered a ride by a farmer with a cart, or a driver with a wagon. But he doesn’t mind walking.

After spending so much of his life at breakneck speed, always riding away from something, it’s nice to take his time. He likes knowing that there’s nothing, nobody who cares about him enough to be coming after him. Not out here. Nobody likes to think about the local gravediggers, and he likes things perfectly well that way.

Most of the shops in town are just opening up when he arrives. The north road takes him past some of the fancier places first - the perfumier and milliner, though he lingers in the window of the latter, staring at the elegant displays in the window. A sign out the front boasts imports from Europe, and there are all manner of feathers and silk flowers on display, rolls of gauzy fabric, and ribbons in every colour imaginable. Izzy stares until he can bear it no longer, until a movement from somewhere inside the store sends him fleeing down the main street to safer territory.

The general store is blessedly deserted this early in the day. Izzy had learned his lesson the first time he’d come in and discovered half the town’s men in there gathered around the shopping till, chatting and gossiping loudly. Francis, the storekeeper, is restocking shelves when he enters, and nods his greeting to Izzy, which he returns.

“The usual today, Mister Hands?”

“Don’t trouble yourself, I can manage.”

Francis nods again, and returns to his stacking while Izzy busies himself with mentally ticking off the items on his list. The two of them seldom spoke, but Francis seemed to trust Izzy, and Izzy didn’t particularly enjoy small talk. The less he appears in the lives of the people out here, the better.

He piles his packages on the front counter, and pays Francis.

“No coffee again?” says Francis, curious. 

“Not this time,” says Izzy.

He wants to give a reason, but he can’t think of one, and so he waves an awkward goodbye and sets back out to finish up. His pack is already weighing him down when he makes his way to the butcher for the cheap bacon, and that, with the addition of a hard cheese and some dried fruit, are about as much as he can carry all the way back. 

On his way back out of down, he stops at the hat shop again, his hand going to his pocket where his coffee money is hidden.

The store is quiet when he enters, and a bell rings to announce his presence.

The girl at the counter giggles when she sees him, and it occurs to him that they don’t likely get many men in here. She’s young - probably an assistant, since it’s unlikely that she’s running this whole place by herself at such an age.

Izzy stands awkwardly in the doorway - every surface in the shop is filled with displays of beautiful, soft, fine things, and he’s not quite sure what to do about it all.

“You can put your pack down by the door,” says the woman, blushing furiously, “so you don’t knock anything over.”

Izzy does just that, and then folds his hands nervously.

This place even smells nice - there’s a hint of perfume lingering in the air, something floral that matches the beautiful dyed colours of all the fabrics and trimmings in here. He suddenly feels incredibly self conscious, ragged and dirty and entirely unsuited to a shop like this. 

“Can I help you?” says the girl, sounding a little worried.

“I -” Izzy smiles sheepishly, “I’m, uh, looking for a ribbon?”

The girl beams at him, her entire demeanour changing as she realises what he’s here for.

“That is so sweet,” she says, coming out from behind the counter, “I’m assuming that it’s not for you?”

Izzy can’t remember the last time he felt so nervous. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, his pulse beating out a quickening rhythm as he tries to find his words.

“No,” he breathes, “not for me.”

“We’ve got all types of ribbon,” says the girl, “satin and silk and velvet - and lots of colours, too! What colour do you want?”

Izzy wishes he knew. He’s not good at this sort of thing, picking out pretty things and colours. 

But he thinks about sundown, of moonlight, of relief from the heat of the day and the quiet of the evening. He thinks Roach looks very beautiful, when the lights are dim and the stars are out.

“Something in silver?” says Izzy.

A pang of terror slices through him when the girl giggles. Has he chosen incorrectly?

“That’s not a colour,” she says, “how boring. I know all about what ladies like, and let me tell you sir, they like colours.”

The corner of Izzy’s mouth ticks upwards.

“Is that so?”

She nods very seriously, auburn curls bouncing.

“Why silver, may I ask?”

Now it’s Izzy’s turn to blush.

“Colour of the moon,” he murmurs.

The girl laughs and takes him by the hand, leading him over to a series of shelves where the millinery supplies are being kept.

“Why don’t you try dark blue then?” she says, rummaging through, “like the night sky?”

She presents him with three choices, in different shades of dark blue. He’s afraid to touch them, they look so soft, so smooth and shiny. There’s dust ground into every inch of him by now, and he wonders if he’ll leave behind a stain.

“That one,” says Izzy, pointing at a deep, midnight blue that shines brighter where the light hits it, and is almost black in the shadow.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” says the girl, “it’s velvet. You can feel it - go on-”

Izzy reaches out tentatively, and feels the fabric. It feels soft, fuzzy, like a baby animal might. It’s fascinating to him, and he thinks about tying its beautiful length into Roach’s hair.

“It’s lovely,” he says sincerely, “I’ll have some of that, please. Enough to tie your hair back.”

“Of course,” grins the girl.

She snips him off a generous portion, then wraps his purchase up in delicate paper for Izzy to put safely in his pocket.

“It really is a lovely colour,” she says.

“It’s perfect,” says Izzy, “thank you.”

Izzy begins to head back home. The journey back is always extra tiring - the sun is higher in the sky now, and his pack is heavy. But the little packet tucked away next to his heart somehow makes everything easier, like its presence alone has made his steps lighter.

*

Roach brushes off graves and digs out unruly plants in the graveyard lot, saving the edible ones and setting some others aside to replant closer to the house. It’s not a bad way to pass the morning - it keeps his hands and his head busy, but it’s not so difficult a task that it will leave him worn out. The sun is pleasantly warm at his back - he’s not quite so affected by the heat as Izzy is.  He works without haste, humming under his breath and scanning the scrubby woodlands around for any glimpses of Buttons. 

He’s also quietly pleased that Izzy’s going into town today. He'll be back with sugar and fruit, and Roach will cook something special and a little decadent.

He pulls out another handful of dandelions, then stands to stretch out his back.

It’s then that the sudden sound of horses draws his attention away. 

There are two men at the gates, each of them riding a horse - one grey, and one jet black. He has to put a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun to get a proper look at them, squinting into the late morning.

They’re probably the family of the deceased, and frustration wells up as Roach wonders when Izzy will be getting back. Families are rightfully sad and antsy about their lost loved ones, but the early ones always linger. They want to talk to him, tell him about the people they’ve lost like sinners at a confessional. How they didn’t spend enough time, didn’t remind their friends and family that they were loved. That they didn’t have enough time, enough thought. 

Roach has no absolution to give to them. 

The two men ride their horses up, which is a little odd. It feels disrespectful, though Roach wonders if that’s perhaps a remnant of his old home, where the graves are shielded from any and all movement in the village, lest the goats disturb the resting place of their dead. 

“You’re the one called Roach, right?” calls the man on the black horse.

“That is correct,” Roach replies, “I am sorry, my partner is not back yet, and they have not delivered the body. Perhaps you would like to wait?”

The two men don’t reply - they ride their horses right up to him. Roach takes a step back, a little put out by the sudden proximity.

The man on the black horse leans forwards in the saddle. He’s tall, with dirty blond hair cropped to his shoulders, blocking out the sun. 

“You know Stede Bonnet, don’t you?”

Roach’s immediate instinct is to bolt, but he holds his ground. Izzy will be back soon. They’ll sort this out, one way or another.

There’s a knife in the house, an old one, one that’s seen too much human blood to be used for cooking anymore. At some point he’d stopped carrying it around with him everywhere. He’s let down his guard. He’s gotten comfortable. He curses the idea that he ever could have believed he’d be free.

“Thought so,” smirks the man, “well, we’ve got a proposal for you.”

“Don’t word it like that,” says his partner, “you’ll make him think he has a choice.”

His partner is a much smaller man, stocky and short. When he speaks, his mouth is mostly covered by a bushy moustache. He’s soft spoken, but his eyes are sharp, his movements quick. 

Roach wonders if he still has time to escape.

“We don’t need much from you,” says the blond, “just a little stint as a tour guide.”

“Bonnet’s hideout. In the caves, out west.”

Roach grimaces. He knows the caves well. They’re an elaborate series of tunnels, made even more so by careful “set dressing,” as Bonnet called it. It wasn’t quite booby trapped, but it was definitely difficult to find your way around.

The authentic outlaw experience, Bonnet had said. A fucking nuisance was what it had been. 

He hasn’t thought about it in years, but he’s been in and out often enough that he knows he could pick his way through if he needs to.

Why isn’t Izzy back yet? It’s so much easier to be brave when there’s two of them together.

“What if I do not want to go back there?” says Roach, carefully concealing the way his voice wants to tremble.

“Yeah, we thought about that,” says the man with the moustache, “that’s the thing. You can come with us. Get the job over and done with. We come back here, and we leave you alone.”

“Or?” says Roach.

“Or we ride down and ambush your friend Mister Hands on his way home,” says the blond, drawing his gun and giving it a pointed spin.

Roach dusts his hands off, then sighs.

“Let us go, then,” he says.

His heart is thumping in his chest. He prays silently to anybody who might be listening that Izzy will return. That Buttons will wander through. That the funeral party will arrive.

All he wants is Izzy. He doesn’t care that he goes to bed aching most nights, that he rises each morning too tired to speak. None of it matters, because for the first time in his life he isn’t alone.  

But nobody comes.

“Who do I join?” he says, looking from horse to horse.

The blond barks out a laugh, and points the gun at him.

“You’re walking.”

The sun has not yet risen to its peak, and the breeze dies down to a light whisper, as though the wind itself is too afraid to speak.

He’d known. Somewhere deep down, he’d know that they would never be free. It was too much to ask for, he thinks bitterly, that they be allowed to live out the rest of their days undisturbed. 

*

Izzy can’t stop touching his pocket on the way home. He walks as fast as he can, heedless of his own breathlessness. He feels light and full of energy, wondering how he’ll give his gift to Roach. 

He’ll wait until tonight, he thinks. When they’ve eaten, when Roach has insisted on cooking something special, like he always does when Izzy returns from town. 

He stops at the gate.

The graveyard is empty.

“Roach?” he calls.

It feels strangely still out here, with hardly a breath of wind anywhere. He hadn’t realised he was sweating, but suddenly he feels overheated and out of air, like he’s choking from the lack of movement or breeze.

“Roach?” he calls, a little louder this time.

There are handfuls of dandelions scattered on the ground. They’ve been trampled into the dirt, which is strange because Roach usually saves them for tea. 

“Roach?”

He isn’t here. Dread creeps into Izzy as he turns around in a circle, realising that Roach is gone. Disappeared. There’s no note, nothing left behind except a few crushed flowers, but Izzy knows he wouldn’t have gone willingly. This, at least, he can be certain of by now.

He quells the fragile, fluttering fear in his chest in an instant. He doesn’t have time to cry and tremble about it right now. 

Water. Hat. Knife. He kits himself out in a manner he hasn’t had to use in years by now, hoping to god that he still remembers how to defend himself out there. 

They’ve slipped, the both of them. There was a time where the two of them still slept with a knife under the pillow, woke at the slightest sound, and kept a careful eye on the horizon.

In time, they’d grown to believe that they might be safe out here.

Fucking stupid thing to believe.

Izzy doesn’t have a horse anymore. He’s fucking useless trying to find Roach on foot, so that’s the first thing he needs. 

He fights the urge to run all the way back into town, though the urgency is beating a frantic pace against his ribcage. He walks quickly though, arms swinging, feet stumbling over the uneven ground, so that when he arrives at Jackie’s saloon, he’s out of breath and his clothes feel like they’re burning against his skin.

“Jesus, get in out of the sun,” says Jackie from across the room. 

Izzy knows he must look a mess. He feels like one, unmoored and unsteady, already tired from his several trips that day. His hair is tangled and damp, stuck to his face. Jackie's eyes are twinkling in a way that he knows means she's laughing at him.

“I need a horse,” he blurts out, “please.”

Jackie just stares at him, drumming the fingers of her flesh-and-blood hand on the table.

“What, and you think Jackie’s just gonna give you one? Tell me a story, Hands.”

She kicks the seat across from her out from under the table, and Izzy fights the urge to scream as he sits down.

She holds up two fingers, and now isn’t the time to have a fucking drink, but for Roach’s sake Izzy forces a smile and chokes down a sip of the whiskey.

“Now I know you need it,” chuckles Jackie, “you don’t have to finish that if you don’t want to.”

Izzy looks her in the eye and tosses back the rest of the shot. Jackie raises an eyebrow.

“You have my attention.”

“They took Roach,” wheezes Izzy. He feels like all of the moisture has suddenly gone out of his mouth.

“Damn,” says Jackie.

Then, she waits.

“I don’t know who,” says Izzy, “but I assume it’s someone connected to fuckin’ - the old boss - you know the one.”

“I do. And you’re taking one of my horses out to him?”

“Fuck. Jackie-”

“What else do you know?”

Izzy grimaces.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m going in blind here Jackie, I just need - I just need transport. Please. I’ll pay-”

“With what?” scoffs Jackie, “you don’t exactly look like you’re rolling in cash right now, and Jackie don’t take payment in anything else you’ve got to offer.” 

Izzy grits his teeth, and stares at a waxy burn mark in the table in front of him.

“Please,” he says, “I’ll do anything. I swear.”

Jackie takes her time unwrapping a cigar, biting off the end and spitting it out. She lights a match one-handed, then takes a long, lingering puff - all the time while maintaining eye contact. Izzy doesn’t move a muscle while she does this, just stares at the burn mark, hoping and praying that he’s got something - anything that Jackie would want from him. He has so little to offer.

Finally, Jackie pats his hand kindly.

“I’m just fuckin’ with you, Hands,” she says, “I like watching you sweat. You get so wound up.”

“Jackie-”

“Damn, you’re a cutie pie. Look, Geraldo’ll pick you something.”

She looks him up and down pointedly.

“Maybe one of the smaller ones.”

“Oh fuck off.”

“They’re the sturdy ones, you know. Stubborn little bastards always are.”

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He knows what she’s getting at, and he appreciates it, but every inch of him is itching to ride, to move, to get somewhere so he can get Roach back. 

Geraldo chatters incessantly, running through reams of unnecessary information about each of Jackie’s horses until Izzy gets to one, a little grey Arabian that he is informed is named Willow.

Willow is a placid enough horse, calm and almost disinterested as Izzy gets her saddled up. 

“If anything happens to her, you’re dead,” says Geraldo, “Jackie told me to tell you that specifically.”

“Don’t worry, I know,” sighs Izzy.

It takes him several tries to actually swing up onto her back, and he grits his teeth as he tries to get his leg up a third time and fails miserably.

“We’ve got a fence,” says Geraldo, “if you need a leg up.”

“Fuck off,” pants Izzy, grasping a handful of Willow’s mane and hauling himself up, lying flat along her back for a moment to catch his breath before he sits up properly.

Once he’s up, it’s fine. She seems unperturbed by his ineptitude, which is a blessing.

“Dead,” says Geraldo, “as in, deceased. And it won’t be pretty.”

“Goodbye, Geraldo.”

*

“Yippee Ti Yi Yo, get along little dogies… It’s your misfortune and none of my own-”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Roach smiles to himself. He’s not overly familiar with the song, just the one line he heard once that’s stuck with him, running over and over in his head. If he has to deal with it, so do these two pricks.

“Yippee Ti Yi Yo,” he sings to himself, “get along little dogies…”

“God, I can see why they kicked you out,” grumbles the man with the moustache, who Roach has learned is named Jonathan.

“I was not kicked out!” says Roach brightly, “I left!”

“Sure you were,” says the blond one, Daryl.

“Believe what you will. I do not care. Yippee Ti Yi Yo-”

Singing passes the time. Their horses are at a walk, but even a slow walk for the horses is a brisk pace for him, and travelling through the hottest part of the day is starting to get to him.

He’s been tied up at the wrists with a rope, which they’ve fastened to the back of Daryl’s saddle. The sun is directly above him, and the top of his head feels burning hot. Privately, he laughs at the thought that Izzy will probably berate him for not wearing a hat, later. Pot, meet the kettle and all that. 

“Bonnet joined up with fucking Blackbeard. Why the fuck would you leave voluntarily?”

Daryl is too curious to let it lie. Roach has been dreading this, the knowledge that even now, the man has his fans and admirers all over the country. There’s no escaping the legend, probably never will be until they’re long dead and buried in the ground.

“Nothing lasts forever,” murmurs Roach, “there are other things to try.”

“Like digging holes?” scoffs Jonathan, “right. That sounds like a choice.”

“I like the peace and quiet,” says Roach. 

He doesn’t expect them to understand, and they don’t.

“Sounds like a crock of shit if you ask me.”

“Stop asking questions if you do not like the answers,” shrugs Roach.

He hears Jonathan rummage for something, and there isn’t enough time for him to wonder what it is before pain explodes across his back and he falls to his knees. He barely has a moment to gasp for air before the horse walks past him and his arms are wrenched forwards, so he has to stumble to his feet and stagger after them while his vision swims from pain.

Jonathan is still holding his rifle by the barrel like it’s a club.

Roach glares at him as he regains his equilibrium, feeling the new ache throbbing away between his shoulder blades.

“Don’t get smart,” says Jonathan, then spits at the ground by his feet.

Roach rolls his neck, then clears his throat.

“Yippee Ti Yi Yo, get along little dogies…”

Daryl doubles back and snatches the rifle out of Jonathan’s hands. Roach throws his arms up to protect his face, but blows rain down on him anyway, hitting at his arms, his chest, his back, wherever he can reach.

“Shut up!” shouts Daryl, “shut the fuck up!”

At some point Roach ends up on the ground, as far away from Daryl as he can manage, all the while cackling to himself. He’s met people like this before. Outlaws are all the same these days, people out to make a name for themselves, drawn in by the promise of fame and recognition, of riches they think they can ride out and steal. Like stealing is a game they can play instead of a necessity for them to stay alive. Roach has spent his whole life flying under the nose of the law, and all it’s given him is nightmares and a shoulder that aches when the weather changes. 

Roach wants nothing more than for people to forget that he exists. Maybe then he’ll be able to sleep at night.

Daryl raises the rifle and brings the butt down on his back, hard. Roach reaches for the edge of hysteria that’s dancing at the fringes of his sanity, and channels it into laughter. He cackles at the pain, familiar and nowhere near as terrible as what he’s suffered in the past. 

These men are idiots. 

“Are you going to beat me all day?” he says, “or will you let me get this over and finished? I have to get home to my husband, I was planning on baking him a cake tonight.”

The assault stops, and Daryl blows out an exasperated breath.

“A cake?”

“He was bringing home some sugar.”

“Don’t let him rile you up,” says Jonathan, “he’s doin’ this on purpose.”

“Well done. You are so clever.”

Roach grins up at the two of them, tasting blood on his teeth. 

Daryl opens his mouth to say something, but Jonathan shoots him a glare, and jerks his chin towards the path. Together, the two of them ride on, kicking their horses into a faster walk than before. Roach has to scramble to his feet to keep himself from being dragged, biting down on the way his bruised and battered body protests. 

One last job, he tells himself. One last journey, and then he can go back to digging holes in peace.

He can’t linger on any other possibility right now. Not while he’s alone. It will be the end of him.

The tune goes around and around in his head again. He wishes he remembered more of it. But all he has is that one line, and it won’t leave him alone.

Yippee Ti Yi Yo, get along little dogies…

*

Edward’s hideouts used to be the exact opposite of Bonnet’s. They were nondescript spaces out in the desert, secret nooks among the rocks or unexpected areas of dense foliage, places where you could hide without being found, watch without being seen. They were smart places. Hidden places. Cleverly calculated so they could get the jump on anyone who was trying to find them. 

The fanfare was for when they were working.

These days, Edward’s easier to find. Izzy finds himself worrying about this, before he squashed the thought firmly. It’s not his fucking problem anymore.

They’ve rigged up an elaborate little city of tents in the middle of the scrublands, although from the outside it looks more like a child’s blanket fort. 

A head pops out from behind a bush the moment Izzy sights the structure.

“Hello, Jim.”

Jim stands slowly, staring at him with wide eyes.

“Izzy?” they call.

“That’s me.”

They vault over a fallen tree to get to him, tucking the knife they’d drawn back into the folds of their duster. They take his horse’s reins, and lead him further into the little clearing they’ve claimed as their current hideout.

Izzy can hear music from somewhere. Music and laughter, and the sizzle of food being prepared. 

“Look who’s here!” calls Jim.

A few of the others stand up, like meerkats. Izzy hasn’t seen them in years, but they don’t look so different. Their hair is a little longer, perhaps. The boy, Lucius, has grown a beard finally.

“Izzy?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“We had a bet on whether you’d died, you know!”

Frenchie says this brightly, with a smile. 

“Oh, fuck off,” mutters Izzy. 

He’s surprised when he dismounts and Jim suddenly launches themself at him, grabbing him tightly around the waist and squeezing.

“We really did think you were dead,” they say under their breath, “I didn’t think it was that funny.”

Then they pull away, and Izzy thinks they’re about to retreat after displaying a single emotion, but then they pause. Look him over and frown.

“Come and eat something,” they say, “we’re just about done.”

“Actually, I can’t stay,” says Izzy, “I have to talk to Edward.”

“Izzy?”

Izzy closes his eyes. He hadn’t let himself think about this particular moment, not while he was riding up. He hasn’t heard this voice in years, and yet it’s just as familiar as it’s always been. There’s excitement and wonder in the way Edward says his name, and it hurts.

Izzy forces himself to turn around.

“Edward, I need your help-”

“Whoa there-”

Stede pops up out of nowhere too, holding an arm out to keep him at bay. 

“If you’re going to ride with us again, we’re going to need to go over some, er, adjustments to our groundwork,” says Stede.

Izzy just stares at him.

“I’m not here to rejoin your fuckin’ gang,” he spits, “I just need to know what the fuck you’ve been up to, because someone’s taken - someone’s taken Roach.”

His voice fails him as he speaks, cracking with emotion as he says the words out loud, making them real. He sucks in a breath and blinks hard, hating the fact that his body has always betrayed him in moments like these. It used to be easier to get angry, to cover it over. These days, most of his anger’s been burned up by the sun.

“Oh, Izzy,” says Stede, tilting his head, “that’s alright, why don’t we have a chat about it and figure out our next plan of action?”

“Izzy,” says Edward, taking a step towards, him - tentative. Worried.

“Are you alright?”

It hurts. The things Izzy wished Edward had learned how to say earlier. The things he’d never bothered to figure out he needed. Even now, when he’s worked so hard to forget.

“I don’t need anything from you lot, except a fucking explanation. Do you have an idea about who might want information about - about whatever the fuck it is you’ve been doing lately?”

He wants to be angry. He needs to be angry. But instead he’s shaking, and the sun is too hot and his eyes are burning and he’s so fucking scared right now, scared for Roach, and scared that this group of people he left behind without so much as a goodbye are about to fuck him over in return, just because they think he deserves it. 

Maybe he does. He’s always been a right bastard of a man.

“Izzy,” says Stede pleasantly, “why don’t you sit for a moment? You can tell us all about your troubles.”

“Why aren’t you fucking listening to me?” he growls, and there it is. 

Frustration. He reaches for it, dredging up as much as he can manage. He clenches his fists, and Stede and Edward exchange a nervous look. Stede tilts his head like he’s trying to silently convey something. 

“We were just about to sit down and eat,” says Stede, not taking his eyes off him, “why don’t you come with us?”

There’s something about his tone of voice that sounds quite insistent, and that’s when it clicks for Izzy. They’re not fucking with him at all. Stede Bonnet pities him.

He’s long since gotten rid of the clothes he wore when he rode with Edward - Blackbeard - and the rest of them. The black leather had been a nightmare to begin with, and he’s sure he must look strange to them now, in his filthy, ragged work clothes. He probably looks like he’s fallen on hard times, sunburned and calloused from digging graves, poorer and leaner than he’s ever been. He realises abruptly that this is also probably why Jim said the same thing.

“Fuck you, Bonnet,” he spits, snarling at the man, “all of you can fuck off. I’m finally fucking happy now that I’m not here with the rest of you lot. I’ve got Roach, and I’ve got work to do, and I’ve got - I’ve got chickens-”

He trails off awkwardly, trying to find words to convey the gravity of the situation because as usual, nobody seems to care that once again his entire word is splintering around him.

“I’ve got a fucking home now. And you, and your stupid fucking theatrics are fucking it all up for me again! So you can tell me what the fuck you did, and I can fuck the fuck out of here, and I need never see your stupid fucking smug prick faces ever again. Alright?”

Stede has gone quite pale in the wake of his tirade. Izzy’s hands are balled into fists as he resists the urge to punch the man in the face.

“There was a fuckery-” squeaks Stede, and if Izzy ever hears that fucking word before he dies it will be too soon.

“We robbed a bunch of stagecoaches,” says Edward, looking at a spot somewhere past Izzy. His voice is low and hoarse, the way it is when he’s too embarrassed to emote.

Izzy doesn’t respond. He just waits. The silence is awkward, and he leans into it. He’s well versed in silence by now. He’s an expert.

Edward grimaces, and continues.

“We spread the word that we buried the loot in those abandoned mines Stede used to use as a hideout.”

Izzy looks up at the sky as if in prayer.

“There’s nothing there though, is there?” he says softly.

Edward shakes his head.

“They’ll kill him, you know,” he continues, “once they figure it out.”

Of course, Edward doesn’t have an answer for that one. He can’t even look at Izzy, and Stede steps in smoothly to cover for him.

“Well,” he says, “is there anything we can give you? That might help?”

“You can stay the fuck away from us when we’re done,” says Izzy, “that’s it. I never want to see your stupid fucking face again.”

“Really!”

Izzy doesn’t have the patience to hear out Stede’s indignant spluttering. Instead he glances towards the sun. It’s beginning to set. It’ll be cold out tonight, and Roach-

“Here.”

Oluwande is tying a rolled up blanket to the back of his saddle.

“He gets cold. Remember him complainin’ about it.”

Izzy’s about to set off when he’s abruptly grabbed and shoved against a tree.

“I know you wanted a clean break,” hisses Jim, “but you’re a fucking idiot if you think you’re going after them with nothing but a knife. Where the fuck’s your gun?”

Izzy stares into their eyes. Their brows are furrowed in anger, their lips curled in a snarl, but their eyes betray some of the worry they’re trying to cover over.

“Sold it,” shrugs Izzy.

“Estúpido! Why?”

“Didn’t have a fuckin’ choice.”

Jim grabs his hand and slams a piece of cold steel into it.

“Take me with you then,” they say.

The pistol has the word Jiménez hand carved into the grip.

“Jim-”

“You’re running out of time, Izzy Hands.”

Jim disappears once more, and Izzy’s abruptly left alone with his horse. He can still hear the faint murmur of the others in the distance, a blend of noises that is distantly familiar, a sound from another time, another life. The weight of the gun is uncomfortably familiar too, the shape of it in his hand. He hates the feeling, hates knowing that when the time comes, some old instinct still engraved deep in his bones will know what he needs to do. 

Izzy feels a little dazed when he rides off. Like he wishes he’d done something or said something more. Night is falling fast now, and though he can still find his way between hideouts in his sleep, time is running out.

It’s a hard ride. Izzy hasn’t been on a horse in years, and it’s been a long day. His back starts hurting first, a tight ball of pain down at the base of his spine that starts radiating outwards. Then his legs. Then his arms. He rides until he’s hunched over in the saddle, aching and tense from the effort of trying not to let on that he’s let himself slip. The heat leeches from the day, and the night air chills the sweat on his skin. He rides Willow as fast as he dares and she obliges, sensing his urgency. 

The mines look exactly like he remembers them. The moon is clear and bright tonight, and it’s easy to make out the gaping black mouth of the mines. 

There are tracks leading up to the entrance. 

Two sets of hoofprints, which is good.

One set of footprints, which makes Izzy feel like he’s ready to tear someone’s throat out. They made him walk?

Before he has time to think any further about this, however, a gunshot rings out from somewhere within the mines. Izzy’s off his horse before he can think straight, leaving her standing there as he runs for it, sprinting into the mines and hoping, praying that it was Roach who was holding the gun.

*

A little earlier.

It’s not hard to pretend he’s exhausted. Roach is hungry and tired, and the sun’s been hammering the top of his head for long enough by now that it’s hurting like hell, a squeezing sensation that has his skull in a grip like a vice. His legs ache from the unpredictable, grainy dust that covers the ground, and his shoulders are screaming for him to let his arms hang down.

Roach takes it all, and plays it up. When they stop he sways, letting his eyes fall half closed.

“Water?” he croaks.

The two men glance at each other as they deliberate over whether or not to give it to him.

He’d stopped singing a couple of hours ago, not so stupid that he doesn’t understand when it’s time for him to shut up and conserve his energy. His throat feels like sandpaper.

Jonathan hands him a capful of water. It’s enough to swish around his mouth. Roach thinks longingly of sticking his head under the pump at home.

“Alright, says Jonathan, untying him from the back of the saddle, “time for you to do what you came here to do.”

Roach doesn’t know how he’ll get out of this. The ropes are tied firmly around his wrists as the two men lead him into the mines. He could make a run for it, but he’s not stupid enough to think he’ll get far. He could lead them to Bonnet’s favourite hiding spots, except Bonnet hasn’t used these mines for years, even before he and Izzy had left. The mines were dangerous, Edward had said. Unstable. Poorly constructed. Even just walking around in here made the hair on Roach’s arms rise up, like he was just waiting for one wrong step to send the whole place crashing down. 

The only thing he can think to do is to drag the whole thing out, in the hope that something else will come to him. So he shuffles his feet, and leans against the walls from time to time to dramatically catch his breath. He asks for water again too, and to his amusement, they oblige. 

He makes a game of it, leading the men in circles. He knows where he’s going - he’s spent long enough down here to remember the vague shape of the tunnels. But they all must look the same to the two men with him, so it’s easy enough to send them stumbling around. 

Perhaps if he can distract them. Steal their weapons. Shoot his way out of here.

A trickle of dirt falls from the ceiling, and Roach flinches.

Perhaps no shooting, if he can manage it.

The mines feel endless. They’re reddish rock held up by rickety planks of wood, the burnt out ends of torches inlaid at sporadic intervals along the way. The ground is hard, hard enough that one wrong step sends a jarring sensation all the way up to his hip. 

Their way is lit by Jonathan’s lantern, and it casts a sickly yellow light upon the stones that shifts and changes with every movement.

The rock chews up every sound they make and spits it back at them as an echo from its endless, dark mouth. Roach knows the hollowed out earth well, and he knows the chill that comes from digging down into the places where it’s dark and quiet. Roach knows the grave and he embraces it while the men behind him curse and whine, their commands to move faster turning to pleas as the darkness presses in on them harder.

“Where the fuck do these tunnels go?” growls Jonathan, “are you fucking with us?”

Damn. They’re suspicious. 

Daryl takes out a knife, and carves an X into the wood of one of the support slats.

“There,” he says, “let’s mark the way.”

They’ve caught on. But they’re also distracted. Jonathan and Daryl are both constantly looking over their shoulders, peering into the darkness, jumping at every little sound. Roach smirks at them. They’ve had no reason to get used to fearing for their lives.

Roach stands and sways again, blinking owlishly into the darkness. 

“I am… a little dizzy,” he says, stumbling to the side and leaning against the rock wall.

“Not the fuckin’ water again,” grumbles Jonathan, reaching for his canteen. But Roach darts forwards as he moves, grabbing the gun from the holster at his hip and pointing it at him with both hands.

“There!” he says, “let me go. Let me go or I will shoot, I swear.”

He cocks the gun, then shrieks as a gunshot goes off, splattering him with warm blood.

The shock startles him enough that Daryl easily grabs the gun out of his hands and uses it to strike him across the face. His head snaps to the side, and then Daryl is upon him, pummelling him into the wall and then, when his knees give way and he collapses to the floor, he’s stomped into the ground as well. 

A hand makes a fist in his hair and wrenches his head up, and Roach can hear his heartbeat, can feel blood running down his face and between his lips so that he tastes iron. 

“You have until I decide for sure whether or not you’re fucking with me, and then you’re done.”

Daryl spits the words into his face. Roach can feel it on his skin.

“I’ll put a bullet into your head and then I’l dump your body on Izzy Hands’ front step. Nod to tell me you understand.”

Roach jerks his head up and down, and the hand lets go.

“Good. Now get up.”

It takes another boot in his side before Roach drags himself up by the uneven rocks and planks in the wall, and it’s several more moments before he manages to catch his breath. 

He’s fairly certain Stede only ever used this spot for fuckeries. He’d never leave anything here, not anything important, not when it was dangerous. The man was impractical and naive, but he wasn’t a complete idiot.

He places a trembling palm against the cold rock, and fancies he can hear a low rumble from somewhere, deep in the earth that reverberates through his bones. A few more flecks of dirt come loose from the ceiling and fall to the ground.

“Move,” says Daryl.

Roach moves. Everything hurts and he wants nothing more than to sink to the ground, curl up and cry, but he moves. 

Perhaps the ground beneath his feet moves. Perhaps he’s just lightheaded. But instead of worrying about it, a strange calm comes over him. 

He’ll never be free.

He knows this now.

He’s made his choices and the consequences are marked indelibly onto his body for all eternity. There’s no way they’ll simply fade out of sight. The least he can do is make sure there’s nothing left of him, nor his captor to take back to Izzy.

He walks with purpose, picking up his pace.

“Alright,” he says, “you win. I will take you to the place.”

He marches, swinging his arms, bringing his captor along with him.

There’s a room further in that comes to a dead end. The walls were already crumbling the last time he was in there. They hadn’t dug any further because to do so would have been insanity. The place is so close to collapse.

“Come on,” says Roach, “hurry up!”

He’s limping, but he doesn’t care. Pain barely registers anymore, because he knows it will be temporary. It’s strangely freeing, when he’s spent so much of his life thinking about how he’ll claw his way back from the brink. He’s slipped out of so many difficult situations, but love has made him selfish in a different way: he cannot fathom what he will do if this man goes after Izzy instead. 

He comes to a halt right in front of the rock face. It’s jagged and full of loose rock, and as Daryl draws closer it lights up bright orange. The place is full of splintering wood and dry, threadbare canvas. 

A gun cocks behind him, and he feels the barrel placed against the back of his head.

“You’re talking out of your arse, aren’t you?”

Roach takes in a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

“You don’t know anything.”

“No,” says Roach wearily, “I do not.”

He steps closer to the end of the tunnel. A part of him is glad he will not see it collapse. Another part is angry that he will not be around to witness the demise of his captor. If he is to go down, he wants it to be to the sound of his screams.

Ah well. Nothing is perfect.

A gunshot rings out, and Roach freezes. He waits for the pain. He waits for - for anything. An impact. Blood. Oblivion.

Behind him, he hears glass shatter. And then he hears Daryl slump to the ground like a sack of onions.

“Roach?” calls Izzy’s voice.

Perhaps it all happened too quickly. Perhaps he is dead, or hallucinating, or-

“Izzy?”

Roach turns around, and Izzy’s upon him in moments. He saws at the ropes holding his wrists together, his movements frantic. It takes this time for everything to catch up with Roach, for him to realise that Izzy is here, frantic and worried, reaching out to grasp his face in horror - and Roach knows he must look an absolute mess, but-

But rocks are gradually trickling down from the sides of the cave, and the lantern Daryl dropped is leaking oil along the floor. Flames spring up around them, catching quickly on the bone dry wood, and suddenly the tunnel lights up. Heat flares, radiating against his skin like a blazing sun, and Roach scrambles to his feet in terror.

“Come on,” says Izzy, slipping a hand around his waist, and - oh - he hurts.

Roach limps away with Izzy propping him up, and the rumbling from before grows more insistent. The wood down here is bone dry and crackles loudly as it catches. Roach is certain that the ground is shaking now, the earth getting ready to spit them all out for having trespassed in a place they long ago agreed to leave behind.

“Come on!” hisses Izzy, “hurry up, you stupid bastard.”

“Hurry up yourself!” growls Roach, “I will kick your ass, little man.”

Izzy half carries, half drags him along the tunnel until one of Roach’s knees buckles and he goes down with a shout of pain.

Izzy doesn’t have a quip for him anymore, instead he just drags Roach along while flames lick along the walls of the tunnels. The air is getting harder to breathe, foul smelling smoke making him choke and cough.

Roach scrambles to get his legs under him, and yelps as Izzy bends down and slings Roach across his shoulders instead, staggering the last few metres out of the tunnel until they’re out into the night. 

Izzy keeps going, wilting under Roach’s weight until he has nothing more to give and his legs fold underneath him. At the same time, the earth lets out a mighty moan and collapses in on itself. Roach coughs, choking on dust as they land in a heap on the dirt.

It’s all happened too fast. Roach feels like he’s in a daze, his head spinning and his lungs not seeming to be able to take in quite enough air. Izzy’s curled on his side, covered in a layer of soot and sweat as he gasps for air, clutching at his chest. 

“You found me,” wheezes Roach, “you - you-” 

Izzy’s too out of breath to respond. He just grabs Roach by the front of his shirt and pulls him close, clinging to him tightly. Roach hugs him back as the reality of what has just happened crashes down on him. What he almost did. What he almost lost.

“I thought,” whispers Roach, “I thought I was going to - alone-”

“Never,” says Izzy, mouthing kisses wherever he can reach, along his forehead, down the sides of his face even though Roach is bleeding and filthy and probably filling his mouth with grit.

“Never, never, never-”

They stay there for a long time, crushing themselves to each other, gasping for air until they can breathe properly again. 

*

The chickens are restless. They’re worried about the two men who bring them their feed, the ones who coo and cluck at them and pick them up occasionally, just to rock them gently side to side and watch. They peck at their feed while Buttons stands in their shelter, enjoying the relative cool.

He’s a little sore after yesterday. He’d been drawn back to the graveyard by the heron calling him home, unsure of why until he’d found the place deserted. Someone had had to fill in the graves, and Buttons had done so without a word nor explanation for why there was suddenly a stranger attending to the burials.

There had been supplies waiting out on the countertop. It wasn’t like Izzy to just leave things in a pile, so he’d put everything away for them. He remembered where it was supposed to go. And when the sun set and still nobody came home, Buttons had made a large bannock in Roach’s skillet, nibbled at an edge, and then spent a restless night curled on the empty bed, listening to the creaks and rattles of the house, wondering how long he would need to wait for Roach and Izzy to return. It was alright. He could be patient.

He walks outside at first light, sitting down on the front step to wait. It’s a shady spot in the morning. He has to keep his head covered. It’s important. Izzy would be upset if he did his waiting in the full blaze of the sun. 

It doesn’t take long. Or perhaps it does. Buttons struggles to keep track of the time, but it seems like it’s still morning.

He stands up to watch the weary procession of two that make their way down the road to the graveyard. Izzy is leading a grey horse, upon which Roach is perched. Roach is wilting in the saddle, bent forwards so that Buttons can’t see his face. There’s a blanket draped over his shoulders. It had been cold last night.

Izzy pauses at the front gate, and puts a hand up to shield his eyes. Buttons raises a hand in greeting.

As they draw nearer, he can see that Izzy is pale and tired, filthy from more than just the dust of the road. Buttons nods to himself. He’ll have a story to listen to later.

Roach’s head drops suddenly and he inhales sharply as he catches himself nodding off, shaking his head to clear it.

“Come on,” says Izzy, and his voice is a gravelly, exhausted wreck, “we’re here.”

He helps Roach slide down off the horse, and the two of them stand for a moment, propping each other up. Wherever they’ve been, whatever they’ve done, it seems to have drained the two of them in a way that goes beyond the physical. 

“In ye go,” says Buttons, “I’ll take it from here.”

The relief in Izzy’s expression is instantaneous. He sways towards Buttons and Buttons catches him, holding him as Izzy, presses his nose to his shoulder. Buttons stands still and straight as a tree, and waits for Izzy to gather himself enough to straighten up again.

He sends the two of them inside, and then puts his hands on his hips as he faces the horse, whose name, apparently, is Willow.

She’s tired after the long journey, but pleasant enough to look after. She seems to think the two men she’s just transported are incredibly stupid, but in an affectionate way, the way one might regard a particularly dense litter of kittens. Once she’s unsaddled and brushed, she’s happy to wander.

Inside, Izzy and Roach are sitting at the table, eating his bannock. Good. 

“Thank you,” says Roach quietly.

Buttons just shrugs.

“Figured it had tae be my turn at some point.”

Roach huffs, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile.

Something’s changed about the two of them. The way they hold themselves, the way they lean towards each other. Perhaps it’s something in their manner. Relief, perhaps, that they’ve overcome whatever it is that has kept them away for the last day. Affirmation, that their love is true and real.

A chicken squawks loudly from outside, and Buttons realises what it is.

Roach has his hair tied back with a pretty blue ribbon.

Izzy reaches out to tuck an errant curl back behind Roach’s ear, and Roach ducks his head shyly to give him better access. But then Izzy tilts his chin up, and presses their lips together in a kiss that Roach laughs into.

“How does it look?” says Roach.

“I was worried I’d get it dirty,” murmurs Izzy, “but I couldn’t wait. Just in case - I mean - if - if something else happened-”

Roach gathers up Izzy’s hand and kisses his knuckles.

“It is beautiful, little man. It was meant to be worn. I will wear it so much the colour will fade in the sun. I will wear it so much the edges will fray and it will start to fall to pieces.”

“Velvet’s a durable material,” announces Buttons, “ye’ll no have trouble with that.”

The two of them jump, like they hadn’t realised he was there. Buttons looks from one to the other, and worry begins to creep in at how haggard the two of them seem. 

“Yer bed was empty last night,” he says.

Izzy blinks at him.

“Didny much like it,” Buttons continues, by way of explanation.

“We weren’t here,” says Roach, “I am sorry. I can explain.”

Buttons shakes his head. They still aren’t getting it. He plucks at Izzy’s sleeve, tugs at Roach’s shirt. He ushers them towards the bed. 

“Bet ye didn’t even wear a hat. Oughty scold ye fer that. But yer lucky I’m feelin’ in a pleasant mood.”

“Because you are pleased to see us?”

Roach plops down on the bed, his expression tired but happy. He’s hurt, Buttons realises, his beautiful face marred with bruises and scrapes. He frowns and runs his thumb under a bruise above Roach’s eye, but pulls away when Roach hisses in pain. 

“Aye,” says Buttons softly, “sorry.”

Roach leans forward, resting his head against Buttons’ front. 

"Please do not leave tonight," he pleads.

Buttons looks down at him, strokes his hand over hair that smells like smoke and sweat. Runs a finger over the velvet ribbon, and decides that these men of his need watching over tonight. Fortunately, he's very good at keeping watch.

Roach looks shattered, but he's twitching, jumpy under his skin. Buttons knows that it will be a long while before he's settled enough to sleep. Izzy's stillness is a counterpoint to that, retreating into silence as the relief from whatever it is they've just escaped dissipates, and he's left with room to brood and worry and speculate. Best to keep both of them busy.

Buttons climbs onto the bed with them, curling up against Roach. Izzy leans into Roach's other side, holding him from both sides. 

"Never seen Izzy leave food out on the bench before, or a pan unwashed," says Buttons.

He feels Roach's breath hitch with a laugh.

"Special circumstances," says Roach, "the old man has some flexibility after all."

"Don't get used to it," grumbles Izzy, "near death experiences only."

Buttons nods at this.

"And if ye were tae die," he says, "would ye haunt me?"

Roach and Izzy are silent. Buttons thinks that perhaps he has struck a sore spot.

"I think ghosts stay behind if they have, ah, things that are unfinished. Business to complete," says Roach. He speaks slowly, feeling his way around the question. 

"No hauntin' then?" 

He's heard people wish for it sometimes, passing through the graveyard. The people here are unable to bury their regrets with their loved ones. He knows it bothers Roach a lot.

"No," says Roach finally, "I do not think we will. "

"Sure as fuck won't get any haunting out of me," agrees Izzy.

He reaches out as he speaks though, touches the tips of his fingers to Buttons' wrist, both of their hands resting in Roach's lap.

"Not in any hurry to be out of here," he adds, "do anything I fuckin' can to hold onto you two imbeciles. But when it happens. Let us be fuckin' finished and done with things - just this once."