noiseandhammers
It was a crooked sort of thing, most people said. He's a goner, a wanderer, one that doesn't protect those he cares about--country, family, life, love.
I couldn't take it any longer.
The flag bellowed at me like its stars were bore into my back.
A flag that I'd sworn under.
A politician, they had said, a crooked one at that.
I'd let them down.
I took the fall.
I swallowed my sorrows, my pride, and then I swallowed the bullet.
She seemed nice. Really. But he'd panicked. He didn't want to be a celebrity. He never needed the spotlight. He simply did his job. But this was spiralling out of control and all he could do was push them all away. And it wast that he'd meant to be cold or mean or inconsiderate. He just did what ed always done: he told the truth.
"You repel me."
And he'd seen the hatred bubble and the disappointment simmer and if he'd known that it would ruin him, he'd have just taken the taxi ride. But he'd made a mistake. And it had cost him his life.
Well, more or less.
There was really no dilemma. Really. He should just be able to ask. Just ask him. It's not hard. It really isn't.
"John...would you...could I..."
"What is it, 'Lock? Everything ok?"
"Yes...I just..."
Just ask him. Just ask. It's over the phone, for Christ's sake. Over the damn phone. You don't even have to see his face.
"John..."
"I'm nearly home, what is it?"
"I...would you...let's get married."
Silence.
"John?"
"Yes."
"Are you--"
"Yes. You idiot. Yes."
See? No dilemma.
All he was supposed to do was get it back. Retrieve the stupid flying disc that always had a way of escaping him. That brightly coloured floppy thing that the upright one kept catching and throwing and taking from him. It was mildly frustrating, but ever so much fun.
That is, until it landed on the dark coloured pavement, and the roaring machine with the blinky eyes and the rolly legs came and charged into him, crushing the magic disc along with his furry skull.
There was the cabin in the woods.
There was the hotel with the fancy lobby.
There was the dingy looking gas station with the smelly looking old man and the expired packaged biscuits.
There was the lonely waffle house.
The strange coffee shop.
The deli.
The pub.
But wherever he could find lodging, it didn't matter.
Nowhere was home.
The cursor blinked. The monitor was a monstrous thing, really, taking up most of the desk. But it was one of the few things that Mycroft had decided not to get rid of. It worked fine. It got the job done. It was reliable. It was rather important. The cursor blinked. His third memo of the day, and it was only seven in the morning. Saving the world, one email at a time.
The monitor was worn and old, tired, and had seen many, many world-saving emails and memos and plans and other top secret things that made the world the balanced thing that everyone had come to know.
The monitor was always there. Always ready.
Mycroft sighed. Sometimes, he wished he could just turn the damn thing off.
Nobility. Honour. Valour. Justice.
He trekked on, barren wasteland and endless landscape barreling on in front of him like the scrolls of old, rolled out for all to see, some to read, many to conquer.
Blood. Death. Hatred. Vengeance.
His quest was far from over.
He didn't have one. Everyone else had one. He didn't.
"I wanna be a doctor."
"An actress!"
"Mountain climber. I wanna be a mountain climber."
The teacher looked at him, the gaze that was ever piercing, making his skin sizzle.
"John, what do you want to be?"
John's face coloured furiously as he looked down at his worn trainers encasing his little feet.
"John, I asked what you'd like to be."
John shook his head. He didn't have a calling. He only had a dream.
"I want to be in love."
John, I know that I
John, this is hard for me to
John, I want you to know that
John, if I
John, you
John
"Dammit," he growled. The backspace key was taunting him just as much as the cursor on the page; the page filled with unfinished sentences, half spoken confessions, the letter that would never be typed, never been seen.
John, I love you.
John, I lov
John, I
John
'Are you sure you want to delete "Document 1?"'
Cliche. All of it. It was nearly sickening.
Useless sentiments, acts of "kindness" and chivalry and ancient prose recitals.
Music too simple and too cheesy for the rest of the world, assaulting the ears of those who only had less than a fighting chance at a life together.
That was romance to him.
Love, on the other hand; that was an altogether different animal.
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