[ She has her reservations about doing this, but the last time people started getting taken things didn't end up so ... great ( her entire city destroyed, the one she loved gone ). So, once the news starts getting around— ]
[When he wakes, he's got a fair few messages. It's hard to flip through them, see the mounting panic. His heart stutters at Red's. Crisp and concise, always her style.
Then there's the concession. "Texting a dead man." Was she talking about Boxer? One of those other phantoms they'd spoken of in the tomb, the people whose names she wouldn't clarify as Boxer rattled them off in his electrified stupor? His hands tremble at the message, the guilt racking up like bricks on bricks. Fucking hell.
And it ends with a song. The kind of tune that swings through your veins and creeps into your bones, swelling you up with longing. Her humming never sounded so pretty, coming through the tinny filter of the phone mike. It stops short when the message times out. Richie's left holding the phone to his ear in silence.
Then he pulls back and hits replay. Puts it on speaker phone. Takes a seat at the base of Bill's pod, closing his eyes and letting that hum sink into him all over again.
At the end he hits repeat. Again and again. It's a fine tune to drink to, and drink he does.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
text | un: r.
Are you home?
no subject
The sun's a little too high for you to be sleeping.
no subject
Tozier.
( interlude )
If you're just fucking with us—
If I find you in some alley I'm going to—
Where did you go?
If you come back— ]
no subject
I didn't think I'd get to text a dead man again.
[ Fuck you, Richard Tozier. ]
audio.
Later in the week, #nothere
Then there's the concession. "Texting a dead man." Was she talking about Boxer? One of those other phantoms they'd spoken of in the tomb, the people whose names she wouldn't clarify as Boxer rattled them off in his electrified stupor? His hands tremble at the message, the guilt racking up like bricks on bricks. Fucking hell.
And it ends with a song. The kind of tune that swings through your veins and creeps into your bones, swelling you up with longing. Her humming never sounded so pretty, coming through the tinny filter of the phone mike. It stops short when the message times out. Richie's left holding the phone to his ear in silence.
Then he pulls back and hits replay. Puts it on speaker phone. Takes a seat at the base of Bill's pod, closing his eyes and letting that hum sink into him all over again.
At the end he hits repeat. Again and again. It's a fine tune to drink to, and drink he does.]