Fic: All is Violent, All is Bright 2/11
Title: All is Violent, All is Bright 2/11
Author: sparrow_hubris
Team: ANGST!!!
Prompt: innocence
Word count: 1,735 this part
Rating: PG-13 - NC-17 (This part PG-13)
Warnings: Underage 15/17, Apocalypse & general destruction, Violence, Mentions of death, Future violence towards animals (hunting) & other warnings as I get to them.
Betas: night_reveals who is amazing!
Summary: Apocalypse AU / a.k.a bb!Survival / a.k.a. cockblockalypse!
Notes: Part 1 (contains Art by datingwally who inspired this fic with the art.) Big thanks neomeruru for helping me out with details of Vancouver. This fic will have a happy ending.
____
Arthur would be amused at the phrase, the kid making it sound like he’s taking him to his favorite restaurant. But he’s really too hungry to muster up a sense of humor. He follows though, the promise of food outweighing his mistrust for the moment. His stomach feels like it’s eating itself away.
They walk in silence for a while, warily watching their surroundings, and Arthur realizes they’re deeper into the city than he’s ever traveled on foot before. A pang of fear courses through his veins at the thought of losing his way in the burned out streets, but his stomach growls again and he pushes the worry away as he wonders where he’s being led.
“M’name’s Eames.” The kid says as they pick their way through the rubble, circling around the massive craters in the center of the city. Arthur thinks about not answering, still unsure exactly what he’s doing following a stranger into the city. Eames could be a cannibal for all he knows, leading him along with the promise of food, only to kill him and turn him into dinner later. But Eames seems genuine, so far as Arthur can tell, and so he answers thinking that if he acts like a dick, Eames will leave him behind.
“I’m Arthur,” he says quietly.
“Arthuurrr,” Eames drawls, rolling the end of this name over his tongue like he’s tasting it. “I like it. It’s classic.”
His voice is deep, smokey even, and Arthur thinks that Eames must be older than him after all. His own voice still cracks embarrassingly when he sings, or gets startled. Arthur scowls, wondering if Eames is making fun of his name. He knows it’s dated; he had been teased plenty of times in grade school. But Eames doesn’t say anymore than that so Arthur lets go of the retort he had ready: what kind of name is Eames?
They finally seem to arrive where Eames is leading him. They’re outside a rather miserable looking set of what probably used to be nice houses. There are still solid brick chimneys, but the roofs are completely collapsed; the wood of the walls is charred and fragile, barely standing upright. The trees that lined the road are are gnarled husks, reaching out like dark fingers into the empty sky.
“Wait here,” Eames says. Then he’s off, making his way inside the skeletal frame of a house. Arthur stays, watching the street for danger. After some time, enough to make Arthur fidget, Eames emerges with his backpack drooping heavily and an armful of canned food.
He sighs when he hands the cans he’s holding over to Arthur. “Last of that stash. Bit of a hoarder this one was, but I’ve been coming here often.”
Arthur takes the cans and puts them in his own bag. He’s very confused as to why Eames is giving him food. He wouldn’t do the same if their positions were switched. Arthur knows just how rare finding unspoiled food is, so he doesn’t turn down the offer, though he would not risk his own life being charitable to someone he doesn’t even know.
Arthur shoulders his pack and starts to head back towards the refinery. He has a method to searching houses, a grid he’s planned out so that he can easily remember which ones still have useful supplies and which ones are completely tapped of all resources.
“Hey, wait up.” Eames says, and Arthur sees that he’s shrugging on a military jacket. Arthur can see faded yellow and red and knows it’s German surplus. It hugs his shoulders snugly. It’s obvious that the jacket is something Eames has owned a long time, probably before the bombing. “Where are you headed?” Eames asks. Arthur is roused from his moment of staring.
“I have to find some supplies,” Arthur answers. He thinks that it’s a stupid question. Where is anyone headed nowadays if not to find food, or clothing, or weapons?
“What are you in the market for? I could keep my eye out for it,” Eames offers. Arthur looks at him skeptically.
“I’m fine on my own, thanks,” He says, and he starts to turn away. He doesn’t need Eames tagging along, privy to supply stashes, or taking half of anything they find. Arthur really can’t risk it, even if Eames did give him some of his food supply.
“Humor me, please. I haven’t seen anyone, besides that arsehole who was chasing me, in months. Especially not someone my age. So, what are you looking for?”
Arthur sighs. Eames has a point. Arthur also hasn’t seen anyone in months and it is kind of nice to be reminded that he’s not the only one out here. The world is depressing enough, but he still holds out some hope that people will come back, or he’ll run into a group that is friendly. It’s unlikely, but Arthur has to hope that he won’t always be alone. Not that he can’t handle it though. He’s been fine since the summer on his own. He’s survived, even if his only escape from the hardship of life now is books he’s read repeatedly and drawings of buildings destroyed by the blasts.
“I need waterproofing for my shelter,” he supplies. It really is a mistake to let Eames tag along, but he hasn’t had any voice besides his own in his head for a long time. And he finds that Eames’ accent is surprisingly pleasant. It really wouldn’t be too much trouble to hang out with Eames for a day.
“Right, waterproofing. Anything else?” Eames seems pleased by Arthur’s decision, giddy almost with his offer to help.
Arthur rubs at his wrist nervously, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket and lists out a few things he’s been searching for lately: shoes, plastic, ammunition, and fishing supplies. Eames seems to be listening intently. When he’s finished his list they head back towards Gastown, trekking around the craters. Arthur doesn’t continue with his grid, not with Eames here, so he starts somewhere new. It goes against everything he believes to break the system, one that had been working so well up until now. He memorizes the area they search, placing it in a new grid, one he can plot out later.
Eames doesn’t stop talking the entire way there. “Have you ran into any zombies?” he asks, wrists hanging loosely across the rifle draped on his shoulders. “I haven’t. I thought all apocalypses were supposed to have zombies, or at least motorcycle gangs.”
“You watch too many movies,” Arthur says.
“Wouldn’t that be great though? If it actually happened? Nobody thought this could happen, so why not the walking dead?”
“People thought this could happen,” Arthur replies. “That’s what the whole cold war was, people thinking about the other side bombing them.”
“Yeah but that’s The States, mate.” Eames says. “Who would bomb Canada?”
Arthur doesn’t have a good answer for that.
“Maybe it was aliens,” Eames says. “Maybe they came down to catalogue the world, saw what a shite-hole humans made of it, and decided to get rid of it. Like wiping a stain out of the universe. I bet they took all the dolphins with them, saving the smartest species, and left the rest of us here to die. But then, something went wrong, they miscalculated or something, and the whole world wasn’t obliterated, just some of it was destroyed.”
Arthur smiles despite himself at Eames’ ridiculous, rambling theory. He recognizes a bit of Hitchhiker’s Guide in there, but doesn’t point it out. Eames is obviously excited about having someone to talk to. Arthur doesn’t want to ruin it for him. He can even admit that it’s nice having someone around, for a few hours, even if said person is prone to wild and improbable theories.
It’s late morning the next day when Arthur decides to head back. They had both slept fretfully on the hard, uneven ground next to a demolished building. Arthur needs to cross the bridge before dark, not trusting himself to navigate the gaps in its crumbling form at night. He has most of the holes memorized, but it’s stupid and unnecessary to take the chance. If he heads back now, he’ll have the afternoon to organize and maybe do some repairs.
He has to shake Eames off somehow. He doesn’t want to lead him back to his camp. Eames seems like a nice guy, had shared his food and helped gather supplies, but Arthur doesn’t trust him. He can’t take the risk of Eames finding his camp and everything he keeps there. If Arthur is out hunting, Eames could come and steal whatever he wanted. Arthur has no idea where Eames has been living, and the likelihood of ever running into him again is slim. If Eames took off with his most valuable supplies, he wouldn’t be able to find him.
He can’t come up with anything sufficient, and Eames seems content to keep following him, so he decides that being blunt will be the best approach. He works up the courage to lay everything out like it is. It’s been entertaining, but he really does have to go home before nightfall.
“Listen,” Arthur says, swallowing hard. “It’s been nice … talking and all. But I’m going to my camp now.” Eames looks at him, smile still stuck on his face, not understanding yet. “I’m going to my camp, and you aren’t coming.” Eames’ face drops and Arthur tries not to think he looks like a kicked puppy.
“What’s wrong …” Eames starts to say, but Arthur cuts him off.
“Look, it’s not that I don’t like you or anything. But I like being on my own, okay? I don’t really need you hanging around and distracting me.”
“Distracting you? I thought we were having a good time.” Eames tries to punch Arthur in the shoulder in a friendly gesture, but Arthur pulls away angrily.
“I don’t need friends, okay? I don’t need you, and I don’t want you following me. So fuck off, all right?”
Eames stares at him. The air grows charged and Arthur knew it would be like this. He didn’t want any of this and he wishes Eames hadn’t run into him at all.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispers trying too dissolve the tension away with an apology. But Eames just narrows his eyes like he’s trying to pick Arthur apart.
“All right, mate. I get it,” Eames says after an agonizing moment, throwing his hands up in surrender. He turns quickly to walk away before Arthur can say more.
part 3
Author: sparrow_hubris
Team: ANGST!!!
Prompt: innocence
Word count: 1,735 this part
Rating: PG-13 - NC-17 (This part PG-13)
Warnings: Underage 15/17, Apocalypse & general destruction, Violence, Mentions of death, Future violence towards animals (hunting) & other warnings as I get to them.
Betas: night_reveals who is amazing!
Summary: Apocalypse AU / a.k.a bb!Survival / a.k.a. cockblockalypse!
Notes: Part 1 (contains Art by datingwally who inspired this fic with the art.) Big thanks neomeruru for helping me out with details of Vancouver. This fic will have a happy ending.
____
Arthur would be amused at the phrase, the kid making it sound like he’s taking him to his favorite restaurant. But he’s really too hungry to muster up a sense of humor. He follows though, the promise of food outweighing his mistrust for the moment. His stomach feels like it’s eating itself away.
They walk in silence for a while, warily watching their surroundings, and Arthur realizes they’re deeper into the city than he’s ever traveled on foot before. A pang of fear courses through his veins at the thought of losing his way in the burned out streets, but his stomach growls again and he pushes the worry away as he wonders where he’s being led.
“M’name’s Eames.” The kid says as they pick their way through the rubble, circling around the massive craters in the center of the city. Arthur thinks about not answering, still unsure exactly what he’s doing following a stranger into the city. Eames could be a cannibal for all he knows, leading him along with the promise of food, only to kill him and turn him into dinner later. But Eames seems genuine, so far as Arthur can tell, and so he answers thinking that if he acts like a dick, Eames will leave him behind.
“I’m Arthur,” he says quietly.
“Arthuurrr,” Eames drawls, rolling the end of this name over his tongue like he’s tasting it. “I like it. It’s classic.”
His voice is deep, smokey even, and Arthur thinks that Eames must be older than him after all. His own voice still cracks embarrassingly when he sings, or gets startled. Arthur scowls, wondering if Eames is making fun of his name. He knows it’s dated; he had been teased plenty of times in grade school. But Eames doesn’t say anymore than that so Arthur lets go of the retort he had ready: what kind of name is Eames?
They finally seem to arrive where Eames is leading him. They’re outside a rather miserable looking set of what probably used to be nice houses. There are still solid brick chimneys, but the roofs are completely collapsed; the wood of the walls is charred and fragile, barely standing upright. The trees that lined the road are are gnarled husks, reaching out like dark fingers into the empty sky.
“Wait here,” Eames says. Then he’s off, making his way inside the skeletal frame of a house. Arthur stays, watching the street for danger. After some time, enough to make Arthur fidget, Eames emerges with his backpack drooping heavily and an armful of canned food.
He sighs when he hands the cans he’s holding over to Arthur. “Last of that stash. Bit of a hoarder this one was, but I’ve been coming here often.”
Arthur takes the cans and puts them in his own bag. He’s very confused as to why Eames is giving him food. He wouldn’t do the same if their positions were switched. Arthur knows just how rare finding unspoiled food is, so he doesn’t turn down the offer, though he would not risk his own life being charitable to someone he doesn’t even know.
Arthur shoulders his pack and starts to head back towards the refinery. He has a method to searching houses, a grid he’s planned out so that he can easily remember which ones still have useful supplies and which ones are completely tapped of all resources.
“Hey, wait up.” Eames says, and Arthur sees that he’s shrugging on a military jacket. Arthur can see faded yellow and red and knows it’s German surplus. It hugs his shoulders snugly. It’s obvious that the jacket is something Eames has owned a long time, probably before the bombing. “Where are you headed?” Eames asks. Arthur is roused from his moment of staring.
“I have to find some supplies,” Arthur answers. He thinks that it’s a stupid question. Where is anyone headed nowadays if not to find food, or clothing, or weapons?
“What are you in the market for? I could keep my eye out for it,” Eames offers. Arthur looks at him skeptically.
“I’m fine on my own, thanks,” He says, and he starts to turn away. He doesn’t need Eames tagging along, privy to supply stashes, or taking half of anything they find. Arthur really can’t risk it, even if Eames did give him some of his food supply.
“Humor me, please. I haven’t seen anyone, besides that arsehole who was chasing me, in months. Especially not someone my age. So, what are you looking for?”
Arthur sighs. Eames has a point. Arthur also hasn’t seen anyone in months and it is kind of nice to be reminded that he’s not the only one out here. The world is depressing enough, but he still holds out some hope that people will come back, or he’ll run into a group that is friendly. It’s unlikely, but Arthur has to hope that he won’t always be alone. Not that he can’t handle it though. He’s been fine since the summer on his own. He’s survived, even if his only escape from the hardship of life now is books he’s read repeatedly and drawings of buildings destroyed by the blasts.
“I need waterproofing for my shelter,” he supplies. It really is a mistake to let Eames tag along, but he hasn’t had any voice besides his own in his head for a long time. And he finds that Eames’ accent is surprisingly pleasant. It really wouldn’t be too much trouble to hang out with Eames for a day.
“Right, waterproofing. Anything else?” Eames seems pleased by Arthur’s decision, giddy almost with his offer to help.
Arthur rubs at his wrist nervously, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket and lists out a few things he’s been searching for lately: shoes, plastic, ammunition, and fishing supplies. Eames seems to be listening intently. When he’s finished his list they head back towards Gastown, trekking around the craters. Arthur doesn’t continue with his grid, not with Eames here, so he starts somewhere new. It goes against everything he believes to break the system, one that had been working so well up until now. He memorizes the area they search, placing it in a new grid, one he can plot out later.
Eames doesn’t stop talking the entire way there. “Have you ran into any zombies?” he asks, wrists hanging loosely across the rifle draped on his shoulders. “I haven’t. I thought all apocalypses were supposed to have zombies, or at least motorcycle gangs.”
“You watch too many movies,” Arthur says.
“Wouldn’t that be great though? If it actually happened? Nobody thought this could happen, so why not the walking dead?”
“People thought this could happen,” Arthur replies. “That’s what the whole cold war was, people thinking about the other side bombing them.”
“Yeah but that’s The States, mate.” Eames says. “Who would bomb Canada?”
Arthur doesn’t have a good answer for that.
“Maybe it was aliens,” Eames says. “Maybe they came down to catalogue the world, saw what a shite-hole humans made of it, and decided to get rid of it. Like wiping a stain out of the universe. I bet they took all the dolphins with them, saving the smartest species, and left the rest of us here to die. But then, something went wrong, they miscalculated or something, and the whole world wasn’t obliterated, just some of it was destroyed.”
Arthur smiles despite himself at Eames’ ridiculous, rambling theory. He recognizes a bit of Hitchhiker’s Guide in there, but doesn’t point it out. Eames is obviously excited about having someone to talk to. Arthur doesn’t want to ruin it for him. He can even admit that it’s nice having someone around, for a few hours, even if said person is prone to wild and improbable theories.
It’s late morning the next day when Arthur decides to head back. They had both slept fretfully on the hard, uneven ground next to a demolished building. Arthur needs to cross the bridge before dark, not trusting himself to navigate the gaps in its crumbling form at night. He has most of the holes memorized, but it’s stupid and unnecessary to take the chance. If he heads back now, he’ll have the afternoon to organize and maybe do some repairs.
He has to shake Eames off somehow. He doesn’t want to lead him back to his camp. Eames seems like a nice guy, had shared his food and helped gather supplies, but Arthur doesn’t trust him. He can’t take the risk of Eames finding his camp and everything he keeps there. If Arthur is out hunting, Eames could come and steal whatever he wanted. Arthur has no idea where Eames has been living, and the likelihood of ever running into him again is slim. If Eames took off with his most valuable supplies, he wouldn’t be able to find him.
He can’t come up with anything sufficient, and Eames seems content to keep following him, so he decides that being blunt will be the best approach. He works up the courage to lay everything out like it is. It’s been entertaining, but he really does have to go home before nightfall.
“Listen,” Arthur says, swallowing hard. “It’s been nice … talking and all. But I’m going to my camp now.” Eames looks at him, smile still stuck on his face, not understanding yet. “I’m going to my camp, and you aren’t coming.” Eames’ face drops and Arthur tries not to think he looks like a kicked puppy.
“What’s wrong …” Eames starts to say, but Arthur cuts him off.
“Look, it’s not that I don’t like you or anything. But I like being on my own, okay? I don’t really need you hanging around and distracting me.”
“Distracting you? I thought we were having a good time.” Eames tries to punch Arthur in the shoulder in a friendly gesture, but Arthur pulls away angrily.
“I don’t need friends, okay? I don’t need you, and I don’t want you following me. So fuck off, all right?”
Eames stares at him. The air grows charged and Arthur knew it would be like this. He didn’t want any of this and he wishes Eames hadn’t run into him at all.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispers trying too dissolve the tension away with an apology. But Eames just narrows his eyes like he’s trying to pick Arthur apart.
“All right, mate. I get it,” Eames says after an agonizing moment, throwing his hands up in surrender. He turns quickly to walk away before Arthur can say more.
part 3