#bill moseley
faces look ugly, when you’re alone
the spirit possessed me once more and i wrote this. my first proper chop top bit. maybe i’m giving him more credit than he deserves, but i’ve been thinking about him a lot. warning for mentions of injury and y'know, the plate.
Chop top doesn’t look in the mirror anymore.
Not that he did much before anyway. But more than he does now.
Now he can’t stand the sight of his reflection, how gaunt he’s become, his patchy hair that he can’t stop pulling and the raw skin around the plate that he can’t stop picking at.
His head could have healed, if only he’d stop scratching. Now there’s nothing to loose; how much worse could he look?
Bobby had never been vain, not really. No, he’d looked good, good enough to get the girls he wanted and the boys he pretended he didn’t. Long hair and cold eyes were enough to pin him as just “good-looking”, if nothing else.
They tried to show him, in the hospital, the bandages wrapped tightly around his skull. He’d barely made it, comatose for so long they thought he wouldn’t. But he’d woken up, a dull numbness pressing against his brain that made him want to go back to sleep. He didn’t look, squeezing his eyes shut when they thrust a vanity mirror into his hands.
The new name made sense.
When he got home, the gauze still in place over his mangled and stitched skin, he turned the mirror around in his bedroom. He painted something on the back of it. Something that could reasonably be called a self portrait, though it looked nothing like Chop. It looked like Bobby.
Eventually, when the compulsion had rooted itself too firmly in his brain and he’d scratched so much that the metal of his plate shone through his mutilated skin, he smashed the mirror.
Shards scattered across the floor, beneath his feet as he stomped on the glass.
Drayton heard the commotion and came running, broom in hand. It hit Chop first before making it to the ground, sweeping up the silver fragments. Drayton asked what the hell was going on. Chop said he didn’t know, which wasn’t a lie.
The mirror went into the trash and was never replaced, the empty space on his wall filled with magazine clippings.
He thinks, in his more lucid moments, that perhaps he doesn’t look in the mirror because, when he doesn’t, he’s still Bobby. Or at least, he can still pretend to be Bobby.
we are what we are when in danger
i just finished 3 from hell and felt compelled by a higher power. read on to watch me purposely disregard foxy in order to write emotional sibling stuff. warning for death but is anyone surprised? this features otis driftwood, death follows him like a bad smell.
It really was just the two of them. They were the future.
Sure, other people came and went. Fucked them over or sold them out or dropped fucking dead. People came and went, but they were forever.
Otis and Baby until the end.
He’s thankful, he supposes. Foxy really pulled through for him when he really thought it might be the end of the line for him.
Still, three’s company and all that. He had to go.
His last bullet for his last brother.
He ought to feel bad, but when did Otis Driftwood ever feel things like ‘bad’ or 'guilty’. No, no, he did what he had to do and that’s just how the world keeps on turning.
Like he told Baby: it’s just the two of them.
He wonders if he should tell Baby about this, how he cut Foxy’s string of fate himself. He wouldn’t. He would. He’d decide on the way.
He finds his clothes under the bed and pulls them on, buckling his belt and holster and salvaging a gun and ammo from the prone corpse of a Black Satan. Satan, he could laugh.
Spying through the windows he assess the situation. Only 6 guys left that he could count. Then he spies Baby, tied haphazardly to the fountain in the centre of town.
That asshole is parading around in his fancy fucking suit like it gives him some virtue, some divine fucking purpose, Satanic or otherwise. No, no, Otis thinks again, no this asshole wouldn’t know Satan if he came knocking on his front door, which he very well could.
He makes his way downstairs, close to the walls and ducking under windows. A voice spilling in, loud and grating in the empty square. Come out or he’ll shoot.
Baby could take it.
He won’t let her. He was always getting in the way of her fun. Especially when she won’t shut the fuck up.
They manage, like they always do. Sure, help that is freely given won’t be turned down, but they can’t be expected to save every wannabe-misfit-toy-motherfucker they come across.
No, no, Otis thinks, no one has been able to keep up with them. Not back then, when they rode into town and folk looked down their noses at the pig-farmers. Even in a hick town, the Fireflys were too backwater. Not now, with a cartel on their backs and ten years – wasted years – to make up for.
No, Otis thinks. No one has ever been able to keep up with him like Baby does.
family<3
