"Paper Flowers" (Part 2/?)
Title: "Paper Flowers" (Part 2/?)
Author: caseyrocksmore
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: General Season 2 Spoilers
Summary: "Every time he has a dream, he starts off on his feet, and ends in the chair. Every. Damn. Time."
A/N: For this prompt on the glee_angst_meme
[Part 1]
Artie’s glass of whisky is cool beneath his palm, and the ice in it tinkles sharply against the side as he raises it to his lips. He’s never been much of a drinker, but with so many of this year’s cattle lost to the winter, he needs a pick-me-up. He replaces the glass on the wet cualacino left on the rough wooden bar and sighs, tipping his hat to the bartender. Señorita Lopez nods in his direction and reaches for the bottle to pour him another.
The doors of the saloon are flung open unexpectedly, and Artie, the only patron in the bar, turns to see who’s making such a ruckus. Sheriff Hudson is standing in the doorway, illuminated by the high-noon sun. His shirt and vest are drenched in sweat, his face beet-red and his chest heaving as he scans the saloon with a quick sweep of his eyes.
“Abrams,” he says ardently, pulling his hat from his head and stepping inside the cool tavern. “You got your horse with you?”
Artie snorts and smiles at Señorita Lopez as she refills his drink. “When do I ever come to town without a horse?” he says, parting his lips and tipping back his whisky, draining it down his throat. It burns, but his senses are already starting to buzz from the first glass, and he hardly feels it.
“We’ve got an emergency,” Hudson continues hurriedly. “Lady Pierce is in grave danger!”
Artie slams his glass back down on the bar, spinning in his stool to face the sheriff. “Miss Brittany’s in trouble?” he asks, his buzz gone in an instant. Nothing sobers you up like knowing there’s a damsel in distress. “What can I do, Sheriff?”
“That villain, Karofsky, took her right from her dressing room just this morning!” Sheriff Hudson says as Artie jumps off his stool and throws a few bills at the Señorita to cover his tab. They walk out together quickly, the spurs on their boots spinning silently with each step. “Says he’s gonna kill her, he does. Says he’s gonna tie her to the tracks out by the mountain. And he’s shot all of our horses!”
Around back, tied up next to a trough of tepid water, is his horse, trusty Charity. Her chestnut coat gleams under the sun, and Artie gently pats the white markings on her nose when he got close. Charity snorts and nuzzles his palm, affectionate as always.
“By the mountain, you said?” Artie asks, barely glancing at Hudson as he puts the toe of his boot into a stirrup and swings his other leg over. The movement is practiced, methodical, and precise- he’s done it a thousand times. In, up, over. He grasps at the reins, unlooping them from the post he’d tied her to earlier that day.
“Yes, and the train will be coming from the West within the hour!”
Artie nods, swallows, and pulls at Charity’s reins. The trusty horse moves easily with the tug, turning away from the back of the saloon. “I’ll get her.”
“But you can’t go alone!” Sheriff Hudson inveighs nervously. “You must take me with you! Karofsky-”
“I’ll deal with Karofsky if I see him,” Artie cuts him off hastily, turning his head and spitting into the dust. He’s trying to calculate how long it will take to get to the mountains. Will he make it in an hour? It’ll be cutting it close. “If you come along, Charity will only ride at half-speed. We won’t make it. Now do you want to stand here yacking, or can I go save the fair lady?”
Hudson looks around anxiously, but ultimately nods. “Bring back Lady Pierce alive, or else Señorita Lopez won’t ever let you back in the saloon,” he warns, and Artie nods, already knowing this.
“I will sir,” Artie agrees.
“No more sir-calling,” Hudson says, looking up at him. “I’m making you my deputy.”
Deputy Abrams. Artie likes the sound of that.
Without further ado, Artie yells, “Hyah!” and faithful Charity takes off, rapidly gaining speed. She doesn’t even need to be spurred; a good horse knows when it’s time to gallop. The minutes pass too quickly, far too quickly- time slips from Artie’s fingers like leather reins from a sweaty hand. He knows they don’t have much time, he can feel it in his bones.
With his pulse in his throat, Artie spurs on Charity. She’s at full-gallop, and the steady beat of her hooves races almost as fast as his racing heart. The mountain looms to the East, a dark smudge on a straight horizon. The dry earth turns to dust beneath Charity’s horseshoes, spraying up around them and thickening the air. He follows the path of the railroad tracks when he meets them, a few miles out of town. He keeps his eyes open, his ears listening- waiting for a sign of Lady Brittany, a cry, a wail, anything.
A bundle on the tracks up ahead. Is it her?
Artie pulls the reins, a hesitant jerk, slowing Charity’s hasty pace to a slower trot. The bundle moves, and Artie’s heart leaps with joy. He spurs Charity to the bundle and hops off her saddle with one swift motion, fluid, chary. He drops to the dirt, on his knees, and grabs at the ropes binding the lady to the tracks.
He pulls at her bindings for a moment before stopping to take the kerchief out of her mouth. Miss Brittany’s eyes are huge, her chest heaving, her hair a wild mess. She’s been hogtied, her wrists to her ankles, and in a corset no less!
“Thank Goodness, Arthur!” she says with glee, her eyes lighting up as he pulls out his pocket knife. “I thought I was a goner, for sure!”
“No need to worry, Ma’am, Deputy Abrams has come to your rescue.” Deputy. He really likes the sound of that.
“Deputy? Since when?”
“Since an hour ago,” he answers contentedly, pulling at the rope holding her to the tracks. It’s tied so tightly that Miss Brittany can hardly move, the knots hard and steadfast. He’ll have to saw his way through the rope. As he begins the slow process of freeing her, he says to Miss Brittany, “How did you get yourself in this predicament?”
“That big bully Karofsky grabbed me while I was getting dressed into my costume!” she begins to wail, “I was supposed to dance front-line tonight, and now my wonderful new dress has been ruined!”
Artie supposes it’s true, once he cuts away some of the rope and sees the mess of her outfit; the lace is torn, the bright yellow fabric dirtied beyond repair, the paper flowers under her bust fraying at the edges. He continues his jagged cuts to the rope, trying to avoid cutting her or her clothes in the process.
“I’m sure you’ll be able to get a new one,” he says soothingly, pausing to brush her fine blonde hair from her eyes. “Or maybe you could have that tailor, Hummel, fix it for you.”
“Hummel was wooing me last year, you know,” Miss Brittany sighs as he is finally able to untie her hands. She wriggles, pulling away from the tracks to sit up. “But he decided not to marry me.” She lowers her voice, though there is no one but them for miles. “I believe he has taken a liking to his boarder, the young Mr. Anderson. How scandalous!”
Artie nods along to the mindless gossip. He doesn’t think that Mr. Hummel’s and Mr. Anderson’s business should be spread around like this, but if it keeps Miss Brittany’s mind off the fact that the tracks are vibrating under her feet, he’ll let her continue her unintentional slander. His hands are tired, but he redoubles his efforts to cut her feet free from the metal underneath.
“Mm-hm,” he quietly agrees, biting down on his tongue in concentration. He can hear the train now, so close. He really is in the nick of time.
“Hurry, hurry, Arthur!” Miss Brittany urges, suddenly aware of the danger they’re in. “I can hear the train. It’s almost one o’clock!”
With one last sharp dig with his pocketknife, the final not comes free and he can loosen the rope around her socked feet. He almost mentions her shoelessness, but now is not the time. The billow of smoke just a mile or two away, the shaking of the wood-and-metal tracks, and the pounding of his heart say so. He pulls Miss Brittany off the tracks to stand safely out of the way of the on-coming train. He’s saved her.
“Arthur, move!” Miss Brittany whines, grabbing for him. He moves to step off the tracks, but his foot catches- the jagged metal of his spur is caught on the tracks. He stumbles, falls backwards. Miss Brittany moves to help him, but he flails his arms to warn her back.
“Stay back, stay back!” he yells, and she obeys, frightened. He pulls at his boot, trying to take the thing off, but he had pinned his bootstraps to his chaps that morning; “Look, look, Señorita Lopez,” he’d said, “Now my boots won’t come off if I stumble!” She had rolled her eyes at him with antipathy, but he’d felt proud of his idea. Now it would be his undoing.
“Hurry, hurry,” Miss Brittany chants, “Hurry, hurry!”
With his legs flat across the tracks like this, he can feel the steady pulse of the oncoming train. The wheels click rhythmically, like music to be felt. He rattles his jaw as he tries desperately to undo his belt- if he can get out of his pants, maybe-
Miss Brittany screams, a high-pitched wail.
There isn’t time. He’s done for. Deputy for an hour, he thinks, and you’re going to be legless.
Artie doesn’t still his efforts, but he knows what’s coming. His fingers fumble with his belt buckle, unable to get it open. Miss Brittany is still screaming, but the noise is quickly covered by the sounds of the train- the whistle, sharp, shrill, piercing. The thud-thud-thud of the wheels against the tracks, rhythmic, pulsing, like a heartbeat. The squeal of breaks that won’t stop it anywhere near in time.
And then nothing but pain. Artie’s vision blacks out, his breathing stops, catching in his throat but he feels everything. The pull of flesh against metal, the tearing, the yank as he is pulled under the train- the snap of his spine, and finally, finally, the numbness in his lower limbs, bringing an end to the unbearable agony.
He can still hear Brittany screaming, even over the rushing in his ears. He yells for her, trying to tell her it’s alright, it’s just a dream, babe, he’ll be fine-
--
And he wakes up.
His head aches, his pulse pounding against the confines of his skull, begging to get out. His heart is racing- when does it not, after one of these dreams?- and he has tears on his cheeks. Artie sits up, and grabs one of his legs, just to make sure he’s awake. He can feel the warm muscle beneath his palm, but not the touch of his hand on the lifeless limb.
A light in the hall flicks on and Artie falls back onto his pillows, groaning. He’d yelled in his sleep again. When his mother opens his bedroom door, pulling her housecoat around her and whispering his name worriedly, he isn’t surprised. It isn’t the first time he’s woken her with his dream-screams, and it won’t be the last.
“Sorry, mom,” he says, flinging an arm across his eyes.
“Are you okay, Sweetpea?” she asks, because she’s his mom, and that’s her job. She’s tired; he can tell just by her voice. It must still be very early.
“I’m fine,” Artie sighs, “Just another bad dream.”
“About the accident?” she asks, and he shakes his head.
“No, not this time,” he answers, just like always. He never dreams about the accident. Not the real one, anyway. He thinks maybe she dreams about it, since she asks so much. Maybe she dreams about it all the time. “I got run over by a train.”
Cheryl Abrams flinches, imagining the scene. “Do you want me to make you some tea?” she asks, leaning against his doorframe. Artie shakes his head.
“No, go back to sleep. I’m fine. Honest.”
“Alright,” his mother amends, “Try to go back to sleep this time, okay? No more videogames.” She waggles her index finger at him before shutting the door quietly.
Artie sits up, gropes his bedside table for his glasses and then pushes them up his nose. Without any preamble, he turns on his television and mutes it with the remote, then grabs an X-Box controller from under his pillow. It’s just after three AM, but he knows he won’t be getting any more sleep that night. A part of him still thinks that blowing up some zombies might take his mind off his dreams. (It never does.)
[Part 3]
Author: caseyrocksmore
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: General Season 2 Spoilers
Summary: "Every time he has a dream, he starts off on his feet, and ends in the chair. Every. Damn. Time."
A/N: For this prompt on the glee_angst_meme
[Part 1]
Artie’s glass of whisky is cool beneath his palm, and the ice in it tinkles sharply against the side as he raises it to his lips. He’s never been much of a drinker, but with so many of this year’s cattle lost to the winter, he needs a pick-me-up. He replaces the glass on the wet cualacino left on the rough wooden bar and sighs, tipping his hat to the bartender. Señorita Lopez nods in his direction and reaches for the bottle to pour him another.
The doors of the saloon are flung open unexpectedly, and Artie, the only patron in the bar, turns to see who’s making such a ruckus. Sheriff Hudson is standing in the doorway, illuminated by the high-noon sun. His shirt and vest are drenched in sweat, his face beet-red and his chest heaving as he scans the saloon with a quick sweep of his eyes.
“Abrams,” he says ardently, pulling his hat from his head and stepping inside the cool tavern. “You got your horse with you?”
Artie snorts and smiles at Señorita Lopez as she refills his drink. “When do I ever come to town without a horse?” he says, parting his lips and tipping back his whisky, draining it down his throat. It burns, but his senses are already starting to buzz from the first glass, and he hardly feels it.
“We’ve got an emergency,” Hudson continues hurriedly. “Lady Pierce is in grave danger!”
Artie slams his glass back down on the bar, spinning in his stool to face the sheriff. “Miss Brittany’s in trouble?” he asks, his buzz gone in an instant. Nothing sobers you up like knowing there’s a damsel in distress. “What can I do, Sheriff?”
“That villain, Karofsky, took her right from her dressing room just this morning!” Sheriff Hudson says as Artie jumps off his stool and throws a few bills at the Señorita to cover his tab. They walk out together quickly, the spurs on their boots spinning silently with each step. “Says he’s gonna kill her, he does. Says he’s gonna tie her to the tracks out by the mountain. And he’s shot all of our horses!”
Around back, tied up next to a trough of tepid water, is his horse, trusty Charity. Her chestnut coat gleams under the sun, and Artie gently pats the white markings on her nose when he got close. Charity snorts and nuzzles his palm, affectionate as always.
“By the mountain, you said?” Artie asks, barely glancing at Hudson as he puts the toe of his boot into a stirrup and swings his other leg over. The movement is practiced, methodical, and precise- he’s done it a thousand times. In, up, over. He grasps at the reins, unlooping them from the post he’d tied her to earlier that day.
“Yes, and the train will be coming from the West within the hour!”
Artie nods, swallows, and pulls at Charity’s reins. The trusty horse moves easily with the tug, turning away from the back of the saloon. “I’ll get her.”
“But you can’t go alone!” Sheriff Hudson inveighs nervously. “You must take me with you! Karofsky-”
“I’ll deal with Karofsky if I see him,” Artie cuts him off hastily, turning his head and spitting into the dust. He’s trying to calculate how long it will take to get to the mountains. Will he make it in an hour? It’ll be cutting it close. “If you come along, Charity will only ride at half-speed. We won’t make it. Now do you want to stand here yacking, or can I go save the fair lady?”
Hudson looks around anxiously, but ultimately nods. “Bring back Lady Pierce alive, or else Señorita Lopez won’t ever let you back in the saloon,” he warns, and Artie nods, already knowing this.
“I will sir,” Artie agrees.
“No more sir-calling,” Hudson says, looking up at him. “I’m making you my deputy.”
Deputy Abrams. Artie likes the sound of that.
Without further ado, Artie yells, “Hyah!” and faithful Charity takes off, rapidly gaining speed. She doesn’t even need to be spurred; a good horse knows when it’s time to gallop. The minutes pass too quickly, far too quickly- time slips from Artie’s fingers like leather reins from a sweaty hand. He knows they don’t have much time, he can feel it in his bones.
With his pulse in his throat, Artie spurs on Charity. She’s at full-gallop, and the steady beat of her hooves races almost as fast as his racing heart. The mountain looms to the East, a dark smudge on a straight horizon. The dry earth turns to dust beneath Charity’s horseshoes, spraying up around them and thickening the air. He follows the path of the railroad tracks when he meets them, a few miles out of town. He keeps his eyes open, his ears listening- waiting for a sign of Lady Brittany, a cry, a wail, anything.
A bundle on the tracks up ahead. Is it her?
Artie pulls the reins, a hesitant jerk, slowing Charity’s hasty pace to a slower trot. The bundle moves, and Artie’s heart leaps with joy. He spurs Charity to the bundle and hops off her saddle with one swift motion, fluid, chary. He drops to the dirt, on his knees, and grabs at the ropes binding the lady to the tracks.
He pulls at her bindings for a moment before stopping to take the kerchief out of her mouth. Miss Brittany’s eyes are huge, her chest heaving, her hair a wild mess. She’s been hogtied, her wrists to her ankles, and in a corset no less!
“Thank Goodness, Arthur!” she says with glee, her eyes lighting up as he pulls out his pocket knife. “I thought I was a goner, for sure!”
“No need to worry, Ma’am, Deputy Abrams has come to your rescue.” Deputy. He really likes the sound of that.
“Deputy? Since when?”
“Since an hour ago,” he answers contentedly, pulling at the rope holding her to the tracks. It’s tied so tightly that Miss Brittany can hardly move, the knots hard and steadfast. He’ll have to saw his way through the rope. As he begins the slow process of freeing her, he says to Miss Brittany, “How did you get yourself in this predicament?”
“That big bully Karofsky grabbed me while I was getting dressed into my costume!” she begins to wail, “I was supposed to dance front-line tonight, and now my wonderful new dress has been ruined!”
Artie supposes it’s true, once he cuts away some of the rope and sees the mess of her outfit; the lace is torn, the bright yellow fabric dirtied beyond repair, the paper flowers under her bust fraying at the edges. He continues his jagged cuts to the rope, trying to avoid cutting her or her clothes in the process.
“I’m sure you’ll be able to get a new one,” he says soothingly, pausing to brush her fine blonde hair from her eyes. “Or maybe you could have that tailor, Hummel, fix it for you.”
“Hummel was wooing me last year, you know,” Miss Brittany sighs as he is finally able to untie her hands. She wriggles, pulling away from the tracks to sit up. “But he decided not to marry me.” She lowers her voice, though there is no one but them for miles. “I believe he has taken a liking to his boarder, the young Mr. Anderson. How scandalous!”
Artie nods along to the mindless gossip. He doesn’t think that Mr. Hummel’s and Mr. Anderson’s business should be spread around like this, but if it keeps Miss Brittany’s mind off the fact that the tracks are vibrating under her feet, he’ll let her continue her unintentional slander. His hands are tired, but he redoubles his efforts to cut her feet free from the metal underneath.
“Mm-hm,” he quietly agrees, biting down on his tongue in concentration. He can hear the train now, so close. He really is in the nick of time.
“Hurry, hurry, Arthur!” Miss Brittany urges, suddenly aware of the danger they’re in. “I can hear the train. It’s almost one o’clock!”
With one last sharp dig with his pocketknife, the final not comes free and he can loosen the rope around her socked feet. He almost mentions her shoelessness, but now is not the time. The billow of smoke just a mile or two away, the shaking of the wood-and-metal tracks, and the pounding of his heart say so. He pulls Miss Brittany off the tracks to stand safely out of the way of the on-coming train. He’s saved her.
“Arthur, move!” Miss Brittany whines, grabbing for him. He moves to step off the tracks, but his foot catches- the jagged metal of his spur is caught on the tracks. He stumbles, falls backwards. Miss Brittany moves to help him, but he flails his arms to warn her back.
“Stay back, stay back!” he yells, and she obeys, frightened. He pulls at his boot, trying to take the thing off, but he had pinned his bootstraps to his chaps that morning; “Look, look, Señorita Lopez,” he’d said, “Now my boots won’t come off if I stumble!” She had rolled her eyes at him with antipathy, but he’d felt proud of his idea. Now it would be his undoing.
“Hurry, hurry,” Miss Brittany chants, “Hurry, hurry!”
With his legs flat across the tracks like this, he can feel the steady pulse of the oncoming train. The wheels click rhythmically, like music to be felt. He rattles his jaw as he tries desperately to undo his belt- if he can get out of his pants, maybe-
Miss Brittany screams, a high-pitched wail.
There isn’t time. He’s done for. Deputy for an hour, he thinks, and you’re going to be legless.
Artie doesn’t still his efforts, but he knows what’s coming. His fingers fumble with his belt buckle, unable to get it open. Miss Brittany is still screaming, but the noise is quickly covered by the sounds of the train- the whistle, sharp, shrill, piercing. The thud-thud-thud of the wheels against the tracks, rhythmic, pulsing, like a heartbeat. The squeal of breaks that won’t stop it anywhere near in time.
And then nothing but pain. Artie’s vision blacks out, his breathing stops, catching in his throat but he feels everything. The pull of flesh against metal, the tearing, the yank as he is pulled under the train- the snap of his spine, and finally, finally, the numbness in his lower limbs, bringing an end to the unbearable agony.
He can still hear Brittany screaming, even over the rushing in his ears. He yells for her, trying to tell her it’s alright, it’s just a dream, babe, he’ll be fine-
--
And he wakes up.
His head aches, his pulse pounding against the confines of his skull, begging to get out. His heart is racing- when does it not, after one of these dreams?- and he has tears on his cheeks. Artie sits up, and grabs one of his legs, just to make sure he’s awake. He can feel the warm muscle beneath his palm, but not the touch of his hand on the lifeless limb.
A light in the hall flicks on and Artie falls back onto his pillows, groaning. He’d yelled in his sleep again. When his mother opens his bedroom door, pulling her housecoat around her and whispering his name worriedly, he isn’t surprised. It isn’t the first time he’s woken her with his dream-screams, and it won’t be the last.
“Sorry, mom,” he says, flinging an arm across his eyes.
“Are you okay, Sweetpea?” she asks, because she’s his mom, and that’s her job. She’s tired; he can tell just by her voice. It must still be very early.
“I’m fine,” Artie sighs, “Just another bad dream.”
“About the accident?” she asks, and he shakes his head.
“No, not this time,” he answers, just like always. He never dreams about the accident. Not the real one, anyway. He thinks maybe she dreams about it, since she asks so much. Maybe she dreams about it all the time. “I got run over by a train.”
Cheryl Abrams flinches, imagining the scene. “Do you want me to make you some tea?” she asks, leaning against his doorframe. Artie shakes his head.
“No, go back to sleep. I’m fine. Honest.”
“Alright,” his mother amends, “Try to go back to sleep this time, okay? No more videogames.” She waggles her index finger at him before shutting the door quietly.
Artie sits up, gropes his bedside table for his glasses and then pushes them up his nose. Without any preamble, he turns on his television and mutes it with the remote, then grabs an X-Box controller from under his pillow. It’s just after three AM, but he knows he won’t be getting any more sleep that night. A part of him still thinks that blowing up some zombies might take his mind off his dreams. (It never does.)
[Part 3]