Chapter Text
How did it come to this?
The husk of a barely alive sinner lay on the operating table, impossibly breathing the metallic scent of blood into the air. Naked, chest cavity opened to reveal mangled viscera, every burn, cut, scar, every instance of damage fully exposed. His lungs were blackened, charred, and cracking with every breath, but indeed they breathed. Hollow, weak, and ragged, but they breathed.
That was the only sound in the room as Doctor Rett Indigo’s mind and heart struggled to catch up with what he was seeing, to make some sense of it. A thick, dark substance like freshly clotting blood coated the exposed innards, faintly glimmering with gold and azure iridescence, nothing he’d ever seen before in his life. Aside from a few bullet holes, the furred skin remained intact, not patchy and singed like he had last seen it. Like they had all last seen it. The grin he always wore was absent from his face.
In the moments before he even moved a muscle, Rett almost expected him to say something, or to wake up, grabbing the nearest sharp instrument and stabbing it into his gut. Nothing. No twitch of a whisker, no flick of the ear, nothing. Just the horrid, haunting breaths that were his only proof of life. Whatever reason the Deep Mother had to bring Grinning Jack Booth back from the dead, it had to be a good one, though Rett wished she had chosen anyone else in the world to pick up the rest of the pieces. He was completely and utterly out of his depth. Minor surgeries, amputations, and prosthetics were all within his skill set, but the extent of the damage alone should have killed him. He should have been actively rotting. To piece back together every vital tissue into working organs was a feat akin to rebuilding Eden out of ashes alone, and the thought of going to that effort for this bastard of all people sickened him, but he got to work.
Somewhere, in a no-named patch of desert, chains of pure essentia creaked with strain. Massive scorpion claws snapped in vain at any passing tumbleweed and venom dripped from the fangs of its’ snake tail. A Katari boy of about seventeen looked on from a dubiously safe distance, ears flattening against the creature’s screeching. He turned to the other guard with worry in his eyes.
“D’ya think-”
“Don’t jinx it, kid.” The large firbolg man rasped, “they’re gonna hold. They have to, just as long as it takes.”
“You sure you’re up for this?” The guilt shone clear in the doctor’s eyes as he stood in the newly-constructed personal quarters of Abe Solomon, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the construction. “I mean, he’s in real bad shape and well, you’ve… been better, he’s only conscious long enough to eat or drink something and I’m not sure he even remembers it. It’s gonna be a lot of work taking care of him.”
“You and I both fucking know that’s not what this is about.” The infernis tore his gaze away from Jack for the first time to look at the doctor. A mix of sadness, anger, perhaps even pity was apparent in his eyes.
“I just mean I could do it myself if y-”
“And you’re going to let those boys of yours live under the same roof as the bastard that killed their fathers and tried to end the fucking world? Let them watch as you nurse him back to health after all the lengths you went to kill him? I don’t fucking think so.”
Rett stared at the floor for a moment, the closest he’d been to crying in decades. “Shepherd hasn’t looked me in the eye since, and Gid… he’s not taking it well either.” He took a deep breath, “but I’m not just gonna put this all on you like… Look, the Deep Mother had a reason to keep him alive, and well, I guess I feel like I’m responsible for all this.”
“You know the relationship we had back in the day, if anyone’s fit to wipe his ass for him until he can do it himself, it’s me.”
“Everyone knew the relationship you had back in the day.”
“Well it isn’t my fault the bastard couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut to save his life unless he was sucking dick, and anyway, while we weren’t exactly exclusive, it was more than that. As much as I hate to fucking admit it, I wasn’t there that day and-” he held his head in his hand for a moment, sucking back tears before meeting Rett’s gaze with glassy eyes, “my last memories of him, they’re still the good ones. If you’re right about this, and by some divine fucking intervention he’s still with us, he needs someone that can still look at him with anything other than hate in their heart, and who the fuck else would?”
Rett nodded. The decision was made.
“Alright, well… I’m still gonna stop by to check on him, make sure he’s still stable and recovering. If there’s anything you need, anything more I can do to help, let me know. I’m not sure the boys will ever forgive me for this… but thank you, I mean it.”
“They will, it’s me who should be worried about forgiveness… and after the Sheriff saved my sorry ass! Grinning Jack Booth, under my fucking roof!” He laughed, “my reputation will never fucking recover.”
For the next week as the rebuilding of the town continued, Jack lay in Abe Solomon’s bed, unconscious save for the small window of time he spent stuffing his face. Even then, it was just as Doctor Indigo had said. He appeared as if in a fugue state, eyes unfocused and expression blank, only able to muster the energy to do the bare minimum to stay alive. He didn’t eat much, becoming worryingly thin, and he was already thin to begin with. The doctor stopped by once a day to check his vitals and administer medication, remarking that he seemed to be recovering incredibly quick. Impossibly so, Abe thought, though he didn’t know anything about medicine. Jack began to move more in his sleep, and often the infernis would awake to his furred limbs lazily wrapped around him. Wether on purpose or not, he didn’t know for sure, but as long as he kept things above the waist it didn’t bother him much. It was comforting in a way that he knew Jack didn’t deserve, but he’d have to get better before bearing the full brunt of his wrath. That’s what he told himself.
A mix of guilt, pity, and hate, among other emotions that came bubbling up from long-buried memories burned in his chest like a faintly glowing ember during that week. The knowledge in his bones that he still felt some amount of fondness for the bastard that killed his own gang members, those who looked up to him like a brother or a father, kept him up at night. He was often awake in thought while the man responsible snored peacefully next to him. To call the situation awkward was a vast understatement but at least Jack wasn’t awake to run his fucking mouth, at least until the day he awoke fully conscious.
“What vile devil’s dick did I have to suck to end up back in your bed of all places?” After weeks of looking fit for a coffin, the grin, though weak, returned to his face along with the devilish spark in his eye. Abe Solomon was just getting dressed for the day. He flinched in slight surprise as he turned to look Grinning Jack Booth in the eyes for the first time in decades. Though his complexion remained sunken and tired, the smile was saccharine as it had always been. There was something haunting, almost sad, in his eyes but Abe couldn’t place it.
“Look who’s finally fucking awake.” He put on his very best poker face, all too aware of what Jack could do with just a sliver of a smile or twitch of an eyebrow. Despite his undressed state, Jack held his gaze. When he turned back around he could feel the Katari’s eyes drift over every inch of skin in sight like a lick of cigar smoke soaking into the hair and clothes of the smoker. He’d seen it all before of course. If anything his ogling was a bit flattering, considering the amount of time that had passed. Jack wasn’t too bad looking for his age either but at least Abe had standards. He’d stopped thinking about Jack like that a long time ago, or so he told himself. Some parasitic form of fondness still lived in him no matter how badly he tried to shake it.
Jack uttered a breathy groan as he lifted himself into a sitting position on jittery bone-thin limbs. “I feel like I got run over by a fucking train, why ain’t I in hell?”
“You can thank the good doctor for that, when he gets here,” Abe stated with a blank sternness as he shrugged on a shirt.
“Gods.” Jack held his head in his hands. His throat felt like sandpaper and everything inside him ached with a dull strain. “What the fuck is he snorting these days, ‘cause I need some of that.” he laughed weakly, wheezing out a cough before he noticed the glass of water on the nightstand. It wasn’t something Abe usually kept around the place, but doctor’s orders superceeded his preference for whiskey. No one spoke as Abe finished dressing himself, and Jack downed the glass of water. Every sensation, every impulse and thought came through a haze, brain miscommunicating with the spinal cord, as if aware they shouldn’t have been connected at all. The dull sunshine leaking in from the overcast sky made his eyes ache. His ears flattened at the rumble of thunder, and his bones were heavy with each movement. Jack looked down at himself for the first time since he last had flesh and blood, almost believing for a moment that he was undead with how skeletal he looked. More of his ribs poked through to the surface than he was used to, and he could feel the dip between his hip bones without even looking. He lifted the sheets to examine the rest of his reconstructed body. To his surprise, not a patch of fur was out of place, it seemed as if Rett Indigo and the boys he hadn’t seen since they were too young to remember much had never come to end his life, even if he felt that pain inside, though dulled. “Well would you look at that, I got my balls back.”
Abe turned to him with a raised eyebrow.
“That uhhh… Portia Bella, she fuckin’ neutered me.”
“Did she now?” Abe Solomon laughed with a hint of sadistic glee that Jack hadn’t heard for a long time. Not since they ran together as the Brimstone Brotherhood, or Brimstone Butchers as they were better known by. He hoped against all odds that Abe remembered those days like he did, when they were twenty odd souls composed into one by the devil’s score.
A distant knock at the office door in the next room interrupted their conversation.
“Who is it?” Solomon stopped to smooth back his hair before striding to the office, straightening his lapels as he walked.
“It’s just me,” Rett Indigo answered, “and the boys, they came to see him too.”
“Come on in,” he wasn’t expecting the doctor to come this early. If he had to guess the day drinkers hadn’t even started yet, and he struggled to comprehend why Mr. Coal and the Sheriff would want to see the bastard, but he would have answers soon. “Doctor Indigo, Sheriff, Mr. Coal,” he nodded to each as they entered the room, “can I get you something to drink? I’m sure you’ll fucking need it.”
Rett asked, “is he still doing alright?”
“Well, yes, aside from his diarrhea of the fucking mouth but I fear he’s long past a cure for that.”
“He’s awake?” The three said in unison, with surprise and more than a hint of trepidation from Shepherd and Gideon.
“Go see for yourself,” Abe poured a glass of whiskey for each of them, and gestured to the cracked door. As it creaked open, the Sheriff averted his gaze from the slowly widening cheshire smile of the living dead man’s face. Rett stepped forward with a stoic and unreadable expression.
“Jack Booth.”
“You should’ve left me there to die Rett,” he cackled with a hollow rasp, “you really did get fuckin’ soft!”
“Damn you to the circles below Jack, no ‘thank you, glad I’m still alive,’ no ‘hey how’s savin’ the world going?’ Not even a ‘sorry?’ The fuck is wrong with you?”
“You want me to go down the list? What is even the fucking point Rett, I knew you were soft but I never once thought I’d have to say you was stupid.”
“Did you ever shut up long enough to wonder how you’re still here? The Deep Mother is why. For reasons I can’t even hope to understand, she saw fit to shove that rotten, ugly soul of yours back into your body. Shit, and as much as it disgusts me to say, if you could manage to keep your head out of your ass for five fucking minutes than forgiveness might eventually be on the table.”
“Forgiveness..?” He wheezed, “I know we go way back, and I ain’t forgotten his third fucking leg, but…” Jack paused to look Gideon in the eye, then Shepherd. “Your boys hardly even remember their fathers, I know they don’t have any love in their hearts for old Uncle Jack. What forgiveness could I possibly fuckin’ hope for?”
“Here’s the deal, Jack.” Shepherd quit his pacing to give him a steely glare. “You’re right, there may be no chance in hell for forgiveness, but I trust Rett. You still have a part to play in all this, and you know better than anyone else how these colossi work. We’re in the end times now and we need every able-bodied gunslinger we can get. As soon as you get back up on your feet, you help us stop what you started, and I’ll forget the price on your head until you give me a reason not to.”
“You really are Jim’s boy, he’d be proud of you. Making deals with outlaws.” Shepherd averted his gaze once more, biting back every ounce of rage he could. “Guess I haven’t got a fucking choice.”
“You’re damn right about that,” Gideon loomed over him, “I’ve got my eye on you. Lay one fucking finger on my family and I’ll make you into a fur rug.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Shepherd sucked in a breath to push down the simmering hate on his tongue, and turned to Abe Solomon, “he been behaving himself?”
“So far, not that he’s had much fucking time to cause mischief.”
“Any trouble, you let me know.”
“Of course, Sheriff. You’re a far better man than I, offering your protection after I took in this vile fucking son of a bitch.”
“Hey, don’t you talk about m-” Jack fell silent. The pink of his nose paled as nausea rose in his throat. As he dry heaved Gideon hurried to find him a bucket, returning just in time for him to start vomiting up a sticky black ichor. It poured forth in an impossible quantity, so thick it choked him when he tried to come up for air, and shimmering with the familiar colors of blood-tinged essentia.
“Gods! What the hell is that?!” Gideon voiced the thought of everyone in the room. Abe began rubbing his back as he hacked up the rest of the substance coating his throat. Only Rett’s brows furrowed with concerned recognition. As the group looked to him for answers, a scratchy yelp of pain came from Jack.
He curled up on his side, folded arms holding his stomach and tail tucked between his legs. A sudden, immense pain all throughout his body gripped him. Sucking in breaths through a grimace, he shuddered violently in place, unable to utter a sensible sound. Rett opened his case and retrieved a syringe and vial of the same stuff Jack had been given for the pain while unconscious. He drew the liquid up, and with quick and practiced hands he pried Jack’s arm away from his body to inject him.
Immediately numbed and relaxed, Jack stared blankly as Abe wiped his face with a handkerchief. He briefly examined the resulting black stain, muttering “this is never fucking coming out.”
“Rett?” Shepherd studied his expression, “you’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”
“I have.” Rett retrieved an empty vial and clean syringe, “I need to do some tests.” He drew up a sample of the viscous black vomit from the bucket and filled the vial before corking it. “Remember how I said that the Deep Mother brought him back? I think this is the proof. This isn’t something I’ve ever seen, and frankly, if there wasn’t some divine explanation, he wouldn’t be here.” After once again checking his vitals, Rett organized his case. He caught Jack’s eye to make sure he was listening. “Jack, can you walk?”
“I ain’t tried yet.”
“Well, try to, and if you can’t try to move around as best you can, get your muscles back in working order. Just don’t push yourself too hard. You need to eat, put on some weight, but no whiskey for the time being, alright?”
Jack let out a displeased creaky sigh and tilted his head to look at Abe with the biggest pleading eyes he could muster.
“Don’t look at me, doctor’s fucking orders. Maybe I’ll let you have a taste when you deserve it.”
“Fine.”
“And if that ever happens again, let me know.” The Doctor’s case snapped shut with a click, “I’ll be back tomorrow to make sure you’re still doing ok. As long as you two don’t kill each other in that time.”
“No promises,” some of the mirth returned to Jack’s tone, “maybe if I’m lucky he’ll sit on my face and crush my skull with his ass before I suffocate on it.”
Abe nearly choked on his sip of whiskey, “only if you can stay alive long enough to stay down on your knees under my desk all fucking day.”
“Just that? Or is there something else you’d like ‘cause that’s a drop in the bucket compared to what we got up to back in the day.”
“I do not need to hear about what you two got up to back in the day,” Shepherd responded with a look of mild disgust as Gideon gave an awkward chuckle.
The older infernis couldn’t help the slight smirk, “i’ll just say that if you already think he needs his mouth washed out with fucking soap, you’re not fucking ready to hear what else has been there. Given his age and insatiable appetite for debauchery it’s nothing short of a fucking miracle he doesn’t have syphilis.”
“I’m not listening.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to knock as I always do,” Rett stated, trying not to let his amusement show.
“S-Solomon!” came a shout from outside.
“What the fuck is it?” Abe opened the door to the balcony, seeing the familiar plastered face of Whiskey Wren squinting up at him, bottle in hand.
“Whenrrrre ye gonna let me upthere teh piss in that fucker’s face? Or ‘is coffin, whateverrrthe…fffuck comes first!”
“When you grace my establishment with your vast array of fucking stench and personality!” He laughed.
“I’ll be thereeon…” Wren hiccupped, “opening fucking day!”
“I’ll count on it.” Abe raised his glass to her before retreating from the balcony. “Don’t fucking tell her he’s awake. That smell would never come out.”
“We’ll wait ‘till he’s drunk off his ass face-down in the mud outside first, don’t worry,” Gideon laughed. Indigo and sons looked over to Jack, all stone-faced, offering only a slight nod as goodbye.
“Abe?” Rett said as they turned to leave, “I know this can’t be easy on you, thank you, and good luck.”
“I’ll probably fucking need it.” The infernis set down his glass, “take care now, none of you are allowed to fucking die until the ninth colossus falls.”
They said their goodbyes and left. Abe rubbed his temple as the door shut behind them.
“What the fuck am I gonna do with you?”
“Fuck me?” Jack scoffed, as if it was the only obvious answer.
“In your fucking dreams. Besides the fact that I’d snap you like a fucking twig in this state, you fucking stink. Come on.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad, I’d be free from this impossible fucking situatio-aaahey!” With some difficulty, Abe lifted him out of bed. Despite being no more than 130 pounds soaking wet including his clothes the dead weight made carrying him especially difficult. Luckily he was too weak to put up much of a fight other than his refusal to walk as he was half-carried and half-dragged to the bath, barking out expletives in protest. He did his best to wriggle away as Abe unceremoniously took off what little Jack was wearing. “Woah, I thought you was a gentleman now! Aren’t you gonna buy me a fucking drink first-?” His eyes were alight with a shit-eating grin, clearly excited at the prospect of the other man’s touch, the closest he’d ever get to admitting how much he missed it.
“Would you shut the fuck up?” Abe rolled up his sleeves and forced him into the bath. Once enveloped in the warm water, he didn’t struggle as he was scrubbed head to tail. Truth be told, this wasn’t something he’d had in a long time. The closest he usually got to a bath was washing up in the river, and even then he’d only suffer the hours-long discomfort of wet fur if his fellow gang members started complaining. It was a luxury to warm one’s bones, and much more of a risk if you happened to be noticed in town. What a pathetic way to go out of this world, he thought, naked as the day he was born and unarmed. What a pathetic way to take someone’s life too, almost as bad as shooting them in the back.
When it was time to exit the warm embrace he made sure that by the time Abe had succeeded in lifting him out into the starkly cooler air he was just as wet as he was. Jack shuddered. He was swiftly wrapped in a towel and embraced by the man whose skin had always been so comfortingly warm against his. Abe held him for a bit too long against his better judgement, savoring the long-severed connection as best he could and hopefully without giving Jack any ideas as to what he meant by it. Once the familiar scent of whiskey and tobacco smoke and scratchy stubble against his cheek was ripped away from Jack, he looked at his former something-more-than-friend as if he had something to say but not the words to say it. Whatever it was, Abe guessed it had something to do with the distinct lack of kind words he had under his belt. Silently, he led Jack back to bed. The man staggered like a newborn foal, still shivering and damp as he sat.
“I’ve got some business to attend to,” Abe said as he changed out of his now wet clothes, “I’m sure you can fucking entertain yourself.” Jack’s eyes snapped to his.
“With what?”
“I don’t fucking know, play some solitaire, practice some card tricks,” he gestured to the deck of cards on the nightstand. “Think about what you’re going to fucking say when you’re strong enough that no one’s gonna feel bad beating the shit out of you. Hell, try to suck yourself off while you have the privacy for all I fucking care.”
That earned a dark chuckle out of Jack, “maybe I fucking will.”
“Your clothes are over there if you can be bothered to dress yourself.” He shrugged his jacket back on. “And in case you were hoping to sneak out, not that you fucking can anyway, you’ll have Quibly and Portia Bella to answer to. I’ll be back just as soon as I can make sure that by next week this town won’t be dry as those fucking temperance movement fools would like it to be.” Abe left, closing the door behind him and leaving Jack in the odd quiet. Thunder rumbled outside, and he spent some time shuffling and re-shuffling the cards with quick fingers while his still foggy mind swarmed with thoughts. After some time Portia Bella stopped by after hearing the news to threaten Jack with another castration and throw a romance novel at him she deemed “not fit to wipe one’s ass with, much less read.” She was right of course, but it was something to do while he shivered in his towel. Once dry, he glanced over to where his clothes lay, neatly folded on the dresser. His hat sat atop a stolen shirt and a somewhat ragged pair of patched-up pants, his boots sitting by the door. Even his gun belt was there, his pistol and revolver sitting in their holsters, though with the bullets removed if he had bothered to check.
He wasn’t sure wether the four walls around him resembled more of a home or more of a jail cell. He hadn’t had something even resembling a traditional home, four walls and a safe dry place to lay his head at night, not since he was a boy too young to walk or talk. Hell, maybe not even then. Maybe he never was truly safe on account of those who brought him into this world and paved his road to hell. As far as he knew, home wasn’t four wooden walls and a roof over his head. Home was an abandoned mine, a tent in the middle of nowhere, or some old derelict drafty barn. Home was a group of fellow degenerates trading stories and songs around a campfire, some insurance against the ever-present threat of being stabbed in your sleep. Home was a bottle in his hand at the witching hour, the warm whiskey-numbed lips of whoever he shared his bed with that night, and the revolver that lay under his pillow just in case. Home used to be Abe Solomon, some twenty years ago.
The sky grew darker, thundering an empty threat of rain. Jack kicked his towel to the floor, throwing himself down onto the bed and pulling the sheets around him in a cocoon. Squeezing his eyes shut, he raked his claws through his hair as if to shred the thoughts forming in his mind. After years of feeling nothing but ecstatic hate, disdain for the society he had no place in, what the fuck was he going to do with this? The faces of Jim Morgan and Nat Coal, so uncannily reflected in the faces of their sons, had never before clawed their way into the depths of his damned soul like this. Maybe it was all the familiar faces. Maybe it was the burn of hellfire that had scorched his very soul, mere moments in his memory before he found himself here. Whatever the case, all he wanted was to sink into oblivion. Sleep it off like a bad hangover. The heaviness of his bones weighed him down to the spot. He reached over to press his palm to the depression on the opposite side of the bed.
Slowly and with some effort he scooted into the shallow indent in the bed where Abe had been sleeping. He breathed in the scent. More than just the smoke and whiskey, the deeper tones surfaced in his memory. Sweat, warm and inviting, no, intoxicating like the spike of capsaicin on the tongue and hot like a bullet whizzing past his ear. Devilish blood, faintly iron-scented like gunsmoke on the days they didn’t get by unscathed. Arousal like the sweet burn of whiskey that soothed them to sleep on so many nights. All gone, but the scent remained in bed with him, dragging him into a peaceless sleep.
Later that night, after Abe made sure Jack ate something that day, the two lay on opposite sides of the bed once more. Each faced the wall. Neither were able to sleep. Jack’s ears flicked back to hear Abe’s breathing. He could sense the complicated mix of feelings radiating from him after such a long time since they consciously shared a bed.
“You gonna say something or what?” Jack spoke, the lump in his throat adding an unintended growl to the words. There was a pause before Abe answered.
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Bullshit.” The Katari rolled over to face him, bony limbs stark in the lamplight. He inched closer, propping himself up on an elbow and resting his chin on the other man’s shoulder. His arm snaked over Abe’s torso to rest a cold-palmed hand on his chest. The infernis made no move to stop him, but didn’t pay him any attention either. “You miss those nights, don’t you? Nothing but you, me, and the heavens above as our witness?” There was a barely noticeable crack in his tone.
“Not tonight Jack, we’re not fucking having this conversation now.”
“Why not?” The too familiar purr in his ear was warm as ever and dripping with sweet venom. “We’re both sinners, deep down. You know that.” A displeased sigh from Abe was the hiss of a rattlesnake as the wicked fingers ran down along the line of his hip. He elbowed Jack back onto his side of the bed after giving his hand a firm smack. Perhaps a bit rougher than intended, considering the man’s current condition. Jack landed with a pained wince. Still, it was only a spark in the rain of hellfire he deserved.
“You want even a taste of what we had then? You’re gonna have to fucking earn it.” Abe snapped. He didn’t bother to look at him, but if he did the fire in his eyes would prove lethal. Jack had no chance against an anger so deep and serious, and he knew it.
“The hell you want me to do then? ‘Cause ‘sorry’ ain’t fuckin’ cutting it.”
“You’re going with them,” he finally turned to look at Jack and gestured in the vague direction of Rett’s shop, “to fix the fucking mess you made.”
“Save the fucking world, huh? That’s what it takes with you?”
“If someone doesn’t I won’t fucking be here, you certainly won’t, and in hell there’s a far deeper pit reserved for you, and you alone.”
“Well, you’re right about that.” For once, there wasn’t even a hint of amusement in his tone, but a heavy hoarseness. There was a hollowness about him like he was missing something deep inside, some essential part of himself that would remain forever lost. For once, he actually sounded like a man hanging by the last fraying thread of his nine lives.
The fur of Jack’s forehead softly pressed into the back of Abe’s neck, a matching arm hanging weakly over his waist. So long as his hands remained in appropriate places, Abe wouldn’t stop him. Jack always did run cold, and he supposed it was cruel to leave the man shivering to sleep. That was his reasoning, or maybe excuse was the right word, if he was being entirely honest with himself. Even at the end of all things, he could admit one thing Jack said was true. They both were sinners deep down.