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His flowers have begun to wilt by now.
The tombstone might appreciate being able to breathe this week. He figures they’ve got plenty of flowers up in heaven, anyways, but wouldn’t they be a little sweeter coming up from Earth? Though they are tainted by his smell--Cecil would always sneeze when he wore a certain kind of cologne, and while he claimed he was allergic to the scent, Josef thinks he did it out of spite. He’s used to the chemical stench, but his husband had been a farmer, too used to the fresh air of the countryside to ever truly become accustomed to it.
He knows somewhere along the way, he took a wrong turn, which wouldn’t have been an issue had he noticed this about an hour ago. Now he’s nowhere where he needs to be, clutching in one hand a bouquet that’s three days late, exhausted and out of breath. Oh, why did they bury him so far from home? Josef is getting old, old enough that it now takes two hours to make the trip instead of one, but he’ll be damned if that stops him. It’s been twenty years, and he’s never once missed this weekly trip.
Well, up until now--no! He’s just late, that’s all. He can regain his bearings here and try again tomorrow. Cecil will understand.
He’s heard of Flintlock Lodge, even made polite conversation with a few traders on their way to and from, but he was never interested in walking so far out to see what it was all about. He supposes that this must be where that fork in the road leads. He’s never bothered to find out, after all this time.
Now he sits on the front steps of the main building, quietly and pleasantly humming to himself as he rummages through his briefcase, looking to make room for these damn flowers. Better to have them all fall apart and rot inside rather than leave a petal trail all the way back to his old house.
[sub]the artist formerly known as hal[/sub]
Hoot gives Hal’s body a hug
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At first, it was rather disheartening. Depressing, even, having to make such a long trip to mourn the loss of a man he knew wasn’t going to outlive him. It was on every chart, monitor, and statement he had ever been given regarding Cecil’s case, that he would not live a very long life, so it isn’t as if his death was sudden--he’s glad he had time to prepare towards the tail-end of their journey together, rather than have it hit him like a speeding train.
At some point it crossed the line from mourning into celebration. He stopped weeping at his husband’s gravestone and now brought flowers, food … a whole picnic, really. He sits there, munches on his lunch, and talks to the grave like Cecil is right there beside him to listen to him ramble (and boy, does he ramble. There’s just so much he needs to catch up on.)
He had to make room for his bouquet by removing the old scrap metal arm from his suitcase. For a moment, it lay gently across his lap, held fast as though the rickety old thing were the most important thing in the world (to him, it was.) At some point, he had unconsciously begun to fuss and tinker with it, and before he knew it, the tools were all out and he was messing with it like it hadn’t already gone through years of tireless perfection.
He doesn’t even hear Brendan approach, he’s just so engrossed in his task. Josef can’t help but jump a little when he speaks, though as soon as he looks up, a look of relief crosses his face. Oh, there’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s just a little boy--oh, dear lord, what's with the staff?
Truth be told, he knows very well how these interactions go. They’re all worried for their safety, yes, yes, he gets it, but he’s bored of it.
“Who are you?” Baumann demands right back, now bearing a coy little smile. He’s clearly no threat, so there’s no need for Brendan to regard him in such a way. Maybe, if he had caught him about thirty or so years ago, he would have been considered an international danger, but now? He’s just some crotchety old man, messing with a hunk of scrap metal in the same way a grandma would knit a scarf. “Am I not allowed to sit for a minute?” Young people these days have no respect for their elders.
[sub]the artist formerly known as hal[/sub]
Hoot gives Hal’s body a hug
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— when harrison had come to flintlock, he had known next to nothing about it - only knowing that it was a place where he could keep himself and his dog, clover, safe. he’d come, pup in his jacket, shivering gently from the cold - greeted by many people, but most importantly his sister. he thought his sister had either died or abandoned him all those years ago, and only through fate had they been reunited. the same came for his boyfriend, colton, who he had reunited with through pure coincidence, after thinking he’d been dead…
he figured it would only make sense to try and greet people and make them feel welcome. who knew, maybe they would be reunited with the one they cared about, too?
only was he so wrong in this man’s case.
harrison slowly made his way towards the man, brendan already there trying to talk to him. the man seemed rather defensive, not wanting to answer brendan’s question… he glanced at the teen momentarily before looking back down at the man who sat at the steps, tinkering away on something… “what brings you to flintlock?” he softly asked, offering a warm smile the man’s way. might as well try and be kind, if all else fails.
// sorry for this my muse is just? meh
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hayley had given up on visiting jackson's grave. not the watery one he'd had in the lake, nor the tree with his name carved into it where he'd died. she'd loved her husband, make no mistake; even now that he'd gone, she still loved him. though she introduced herself with her maiden name, and though she no longer wore her wedding ring, she loved him with every fiber of her being. some nights she still saw him in her dreams, but those nights were further apart with each passing sunset. she didn't visit, she tired not to think about him, because it was all the brunette could do not to let herself grow hung up on a ghost. she had to move on, not only for herself but for those around her. her children needed their mother to be there, not just some hollow shell of a woman.
so she moved on. some days were harder than others, but sometimes she could go an entire day without imagining her name on his lips. she'd done her best to replace him the best she could with alfonso, and though the man was nothing like jackson beyond his physical appearance, she thought she might be able to be happy with him. she tried not to think too much about the future, but there was a certain easy charm to alfie, to his lighthearted demeanor.
still, her mind wasn't on alfie, nor jackson, but on her children as she approached the scene. somehow, some little old man had gotten through every patrol and guardpost, and he'd made himself comfortable on the front steps of the lodge. panic ran through her, and though he was, in fact, an old man, she still found herself drawing the gun from the waistband of her pants. too recently, only weeks ago, a man she'd once considered to be something of a friend had tried to kill her daughter. or, rather, he had killed her; thankfully, anton had been there to revive her. still, it'd been too close, and four of her children were beyond those doors, and even the wrinkliest little old person could do some terrible things. trust in strangers wasn't something hayley could afford anymore, so she raised her gun, eyeing the man warily as she passed harrison, who seemed fine playing friends with the man.
[color=#4A272E]❝i'm afraid you can't really plop down for a nap in someone else's home,❞ she responded, tone cool and without much emotion, [color=#4A272E]❝now answer the questions, who are you and why are you here?❞ her eyes shifted to his hands, then back to his face, lips pressed into a frown. [color=#4A272E]❝and drop whatever the hell that is.❞
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It would be rather nice if he could reunite with his husband. Though, he thinks, staring down the barrel out Hayley’s gun, dead-eyed, not quite like this.
He supposes he may be wrong, waltzing in and making himself comfortable like he owns the place, but what’s some rickety old man going to do? If he had bad intentions, surely he would have followed through with them by now, rather than sit around and fuss around with what used to be an arm.
Baumann, who looks as if a strong gust of wind may knock him over, has never thought of himself as scary or threatening or even remotely intimidating, so he doesn’t quite get what the gun is for. To scare him, perhaps? He’s not scared of a gaggle of barely-adults, even if they may be armed … to the teeth, it seems. Yes, it may keep him at bay, but he’s no beast in need of taming. Whatever thoughts of death and destruction and killing those damn commies he may have had are long since gone; dissipated with the sudden disappearance of electricity and power as he knew it. Kind of hard to fire missiles without a working launch button.
He does not make any attempt to rise, but he does stop what he’s doing, laying his wrench and arm beside him on the steps for Hayley & Co to see.
“Dr. Josef Baumann,” he says with a little flourish. “Not here for any particular reason, nor am I a threat. You can lower your gun, ma’am, I am unarmed.”
[sub]the artist formerly known as hal[/sub]
Hoot gives Hal’s body a hug
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