singillatim | i'll tell you now, i didn't even mean it

News of Bigby and Kieren both finding themselves on the receiving end of a gunshot makes its way around Milton in a manner that should have been expected: bad news travels fast, after all. Nor does it take a rocket scientist to figure out who was responsible — whether that was because people saw Bigby venture out with Maccready or because they saw him being hauled back into Milton with Kieren in tow — regardless; it's no secret. Details, however, are spotty, and anyone who takes umbrage with what happened will be able to track Maccready down pretty easily.

a brief respite—

[ Truthfully, he's not expecting anyone to check up on him, not after what he'd done, Glimmerfog and being knocked unconscious not withstanding. For the most part, he is fully prepared to ride out the rest of the sickness in isolation, at least until he's feeling well enough to head back outside.

So, for anyone familiar with him — or those who are up for a bit of sleuthing — he can be found in the cabin he's claimed in the Milton outskirts. At first glance, it doesn't appear as though anyone is inside, but a twitchy curtain is enough to give him away. Familiar faces will soon find the door to the cabin being opened, and a miserable Maccready peering at them from around the door frame before he wordlessly relents and lets them inside.

Less familiar faces will have him on the defensive; it's one thing to be stopped out in public, but to have someone show up at your door is another — careful wording may be needed to convince him to open the door, but even then he's still not wanting to cause any more issues. ]

good intentions—

[ Those unfamiliar with Maccready and where he's calling 'home' will have the best opportunity of intercepting him on one of his abandoned attempts to visit Bigby's residence. He loiters a little distance away, effects of the Glimmerfog still visible across his features and in his demeanour — he's notably empty-handed; no rifle slung across his shoulder today.

Depending on how he's approached, he may duck his head and mumble a quiet acknowledgement in greeting before heading in the opposite direction of Bigby's. Anyone appearing to be angrier or more confrontational, he'll hold his hands up and shrink in on himself. ]

Look, I don't— [ more than anything, the exhaustion is still evident on his face, but there's definitely guilt in his eyes, the way he'll avoid looking directly at whoever approached. ] I don't want any trouble.

wildcard—
None of these work? Feel free to throw anything else at me! Maccready will be keeping to himself for the most part, but can still be found out and about scrounging for supplies, and during less active times of the day can be found in the Community Hall. You can ping me in the discord or find me on plurk for plotting.

[While out on patrol, like he usually is, Levi comes across Maccready lurking by Bigby's place. He's heard about the incident by now, but since he's gotten over his own bout of glimmerfog sickness and the delirium it brings he assumes that's what happened. So he doesn't show any anger or fear when approaching Maccready, just some sympathy.]

Hey. You feeling better?

[ He thinks he's on okay terms with most of the people he's interacted with here, there are a couple he has a better grasp on or holds in a higher sort of esteem — Bigby, ironically, being one of them — but Levi is another. Maccready is fond of him, in that way he was with some kids in Little Lamplight. So, when he sees who it is that stops him… well, his stomach turns just a bit. ]

Oh, Levi… Uh— [ he ducks his head and scratches the back of his neck, averts his eyes. It's not the question he was expecting, not that he's sure what he was expecting. ] A little, I guess.

You were sick, right? I-I had the same thing. And before...um, well, maybe stay away from mushrooms if you're not sure about them.

I doubt he's mad, but I could ask him if you want.

[ He was sick. It would be so easy to chalk it all up to that, wouldn't it? And sure, it's true, he was objectively speaking. ]

Yeah, I was — or, sort of still am? — n-not like that, though. [ He's quick to add; he's still exhausted, still having trouble sleeping. But he's of sound mind, for the most part. ] You don't have to do that, he uh, he's probably y'know, resting.

[ Coming here was a bad idea, he should have left it alone. ]

… Have you seen him yet, or?

Over the worst of it at least.

Yeah. He's fine, just annoyed about needing to rest.

Here's hoping… [ sure, he feels better, but who knows how he might be feeling in an hour or two — would it be possible to decline so rapidly? He sure as hell doesn't know, and his lack of rifle right now is testament to that. ] I still don't really know what happened, like, it's all a blur.

[ Still not meeting Levi's eye, he tilts his head a fraction; not quite a nod, though close enough. ]

Okay. Yeah, that's— that's good, at least, I— [ he sucks in a breath. ] Resting is really all he's annoyed about?

Just be careful, don't do anything too strenuous until you're feeling well again.

[He's been studying under Dr. Goodsir, so medical advice is starting to become normal.]

He's not really the type to slow down, I think.

[ The first real sign that he's on the mend is probably the fact he rolls his eyes at the guidance; though not in a way intended to be disparaging. ]

Yeah, I know, I'm trying. I'd say you're too young to be giving me medical advice, but— [ mm, nope. He visibly falters, corners of his lips pulling into an unhappy line. Not today. He feels bad enough without adding hypothetical disappointments onto the pile. He shakes his head lightly. ] That's uh, the impression I get, too. Maybe he needs the advice then…

I've been studying with Dr. Goodsir. We've had doctors, um, not make it before so I figured it was good to learn.

[He shrugs.]

I told him. I'm sure other people have too. I just hope he listens. Its advice I think a lot of people here would have trouble following too.

[He certainly would.]

[ To that, Maccready just shakes his head again. Doctors not making it… Yeah, he knows how that is — he all but cuts Levi off when he speaks again. ]

No, it's fine, that's not what I meant. But uh, yeah… There's probably a lot of us here who could be better about following medical advice. [ Like, right at the top of that list: don't go into the weird fog! But here they are. ] You said you got sick too, though? Did you, y'know…

[ Finally, he actually catches Levi's eye; just for a second, before he glances way and back at a point in the distance. ]

See anything weird.

I got...real confused. I wasn't really sure where I was anymore, where I was or what was going on.

Before, with the mushrooms, was like that too. Uh, b-but not all mushrooms are like that. They were weird mushrooms people found out in the forest had just felt like they had to eat. Hopefully they won't show up again.

Hopefully the fog won't either. None of it was good.

[ He remains quiet as Levi speaks, a short incline of his head the only real indication he's listening with the way he keeps averting his eyes, looking everywhere but directly at him — he's nervous. Like he expects someone else to show up, someone angrier. ]

Confused. Yeah… That sounds about right. I saw things from home, things that— [ he swallows, audible and tense. ] That shouldn't be here. But it looked so… real.

[ It's said because he feels like he ought to justify it, even if Levi isn't asking — doesn't strike him as the kind of person who would pry and demand answers, honestly. ]

Someone told me when I first arrived that this place, it made people see ghosts. I don't think I believed him, but…

[ Ghosts of his past, maybe, less those white-sheet apparitions left behind in decorations from before the bombs fell. ]

...yeah. I think I know what you mean.

A-a lot of weird stuff happens here. I think at this point I'd expect anything.

[ A lot of weird stuff happens here. It's an innocent enough statement, it really shouldn't frustrate him, but it does. ]

Weird is when mutants start reciting Shakespeare, not— Not any of the stuff that's happening here. Not knowing what to expect is what gets me, like, how are we supposed to deal with any of this shit—

[ Whatever bluster he seems to have found dies off pretty quickly, short outburst over with, he's back to looking sheepish and rubbing at his eye before he pulls off his cap and drags a hand through his hair. He takes a moment to breathe. This whole Glimmerfog ordeal hasn't been great for watching his language. ]

Sorry, I… [ with a sigh, he places his cap back on haphazardly. ] Having our sense of self, our autonomy twisted or whatever, its… I don't know how we're supposed to make it out of this place with sanity intact.

[He has no idea what a mutant is but it probably doesn't matter. He nods.]

Yeah...I don't know either. Its all pretty crazy. I really wish things would be calm for a few months, give us time to recover from everything that's happened so far.

[ It definitely does matter, at least, not in the bigger picture of things anyway. ]

You and me both… [ he says it with such a drawn out sigh, that it's evident the toll this place is having on him. When he first arrived, he'd figured he'd be able to handle whatever was thrown at him. Now, well, now he's not quite so sure. ] The things I've seen — we've seen — at home…

[ He adds the correction, because Levi has told him what he did before he was here, and he's sure he's had to have seen his own horrors as a result. Wonders how they compare to supernatural monsters and forced sleeplessness, fog that twists their minds or burns their skin. A small shake of his head. ]

I guess I just— I figured everything here would be easier, somehow.

[He nods.]

I came from--um, before I showed up here things were pretty bad. When this place wasn't immediately trying to kill us I thought it might be easier too. I doubt any of us could really know to expect...uh, here.

Once she’d heard what had happened to Bigby, and who, Zoey made a point to go check on him. She’s not in the greatest shape at the moment, but it doesn’t matter. Maccready first. Then she can go… find somewhere and sit down for five minutes.

“I’m not here for trouble,” she tells him, hands lifted in the hopefully universal gesture of ‘I come in peace’. Mostly steadily, even. “I wanted to see how you were doing, actually.” She knows all too well what it’s like to do something while you’re not yourself. Not in your right mind. Not necessarily out of your mind, either, but in the wrong mind.

That he hasn't yet been chased out of town with pitchforks is, frankly, something of a miracle to him. Though, being real, he's not sure people would do that, he thinks someone might have needed to have actually been killed for a more visceral response. Not that he doesn't think he's deserving of such a thing.

The woman that approaches is unfamiliar to him, maybe; he's probably seen her around, but he's been keeping to himself, of late. She echoes his words, reiterates that she's not here to cause trouble, and he hopes he can take her at face value. He'd hate to add causing a scene with a woman to his list of slights, to give people an even poorer impression of him. But when she voices concern for him, well, it catches him unawares. The cynical part of him wonders if maybe it's concern for others around them, rather than him. Like he might… act out, again.

"I'm… fine." He manages, though it's strained; not a lie, but certainly not the whole truth. "I was just," he sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose, trying to find the right words as to why he's loitering so close to the abode of a man he shot. Maybe she lives nearby, too. "Passing by. If it's an issue, I can— I'll be on my way…"

Zoey keeps a comfortable distance between them as she drops her hands and tucks them in her pockets. Trying her best to appear steadier than she is. Not that how pale and flushed she looks isn’t giving away just how awful she feels. It’s not important. And she’s always been better at focusing on other people’s problems than her own. She prefers to shove HER illness under the rug.

She arches an eyebrow at him as he tells her he’s fine. That’s not entirely true, and she doesn’t even need her seer gifts to know that. Not with how strained it was.

“And no, it’s not an issue at all. I did mean it, though. As weird as it might seem, coming from a random fucking stranger. I wanted to see how you were doing, because I know how awful it is, to do something to someone when you’re not in your right mind.” She tips her head in the direction of where she’s staying. He's right, she does live nearby. “I live a couple houses away. Do you drink coffee? Tea?”

Or something stronger, honestly.

The convenient thing, is that pale and flushed comes with the weather — Maccready barely bats an eye at her appearance, to him, nothing looks out of the ordinary. He doesn't miss the way her brow arches at his answer, though. Of course, he'd been kind of hoping she'd buy it, but his experiences have usually told him most people don't — they're just too polite to call others on it.

A theory that goes on to be proven once again when she doesn't, instead choosing to insist that he's not being a bother. Her way with words has him snorting a little, the barest trace of humour, short-lived as it is, slipping away for something closer to curiosity as she expresses that she understands what it is he's gone through. Frankly, he wouldn't wish it on his enemies, it's a pity, then, that she knows.

"That's kind, but—" he starts, words trailing off lamely, the intent to turn her down all but dying on his tongue alongside his voice. Maybe it wouldn't be such a terrible idea, if he could at least garner how she apparently managed with her own bout of being in the wrong mind, as it were. The draw of a warm drink isn't too bad, either. He gestures ahead with a hand before stuffing it in his own pocket. "Lead the way, then."

Zoey expects him to decline; she wouldn’t blame him. He’s going through a lot, and being around company probably isn’t something he’d be in the mood for. But he doesn’t. He almost does, the words are right on his tongue, but then he trails off, he changes his mind and tells her to lead the way. She’s startled and pleased in turn, giving him a little grin before she turns and starts moving towards her home.

It doesn’t take them long to reach it, because she really doesn’t live very far from Bigby at all, and she unlocks the front door and holds it open for him. “Welcome to my humble abode,” she says with a soft little laugh.

He's used to being on his own, is the crux of it. Used to it and in ways more comfortable with it, but he also knows that it's not necessarily the absolute best position to be in. Understanding or no, driving wedges between himself and the other people here would do him no favours in the long run, and he's approaching most people here as potential allies for when shit eventually goes sideways.

So, he follows her, spares a short glance towards the direction in which Bigby is currently no doubt resting, and continues on after her quietly. At the door, he ducks his head in a small acknowledgement and steps in, making sure to knock the snow off of his boots before he does. The comment earns her a small, if stilted, laugh in return.

"Hey, long as you've got four walls and a roof..." It's such a nothing remark, but it speaks to how even now he's still kind of in awe at the relative comfort of this place.

[ There's a difficult choice to make — whether to bring his gun along with him or not.

The shotgun is more a part of his uniform, his role, than anything. Edward Little has never used it on a man, and never plans to. It's a symbol — meant to ensure that he is a figure to be trusted, someone who maintains order and security in this community. He's as used to the weight of it strapped to his back as he is any other piece of his attire; as always, the first lieutenant is a severe figure in his uniformed greatcoat, boots and gloves, and officer's cap.

....But this man shot Bigby Wolf and Kieren Walker, and Edward does not know MacCready, or what he is capable of. (Apart from knowing he's capable of using a gun of his own against fellow men.) The last thing he wants to do is risk inciting more hostility. And... perhaps it is foolish of him, but even now, after everything that has happened both here and back on the ice before, Edward believes in the best of people. MacCready is not one of the Forest Talkers who'd shot Wynonna and Ruby. He is a fellow prisoner to this place, one of their community. And if he's a ruffian who does intend to continue being dangerous, well. Then that shall be dealt with. But first — he just wants to check in with him, speak to the man. And so, he opts not to bring the shotgun.

It takes a little bit of asking around, but eventually he finds where he lives, and realises that it's a cabin he's passed a few times, given he lives on the outskirts of Milton as well. Carefully, Edward steps up to the porch and gives the door a firm-fisted knock — one, two, and three times. When he calls out, it's in a loud, assured tone that doesn't quite match how nervous he actually feels by this. ]

Mr. MacCready? This is Lieutenant Edward Little. Are you in?

Edited 2024-06-04 01:37 (UTC)

[ If being addressed by mister wasn't enough to raise his hackles, the man at the door introducing himself with the title of lieutenant certainly would have done it. It's like a lead weight has settled in the pit of his stomach. Makes him feel small, scolded even before the other man has announced his intentions for dropping by. Not that Maccready needs to hazard a guess as to why a stranger is at his door.

But he can't keep hiding, much as he'd love to. Much as he'd like to bury his head in the sand, until this all blows over, until someone else does something more egregious than he and inevitably draws the town's collective attention span elsewhere.

He opens the door — barely; cracks it open an inch or two so all that's visible of him is a sliver of his pale face, a tired eye and the thin line of his lips as he stares at the man calling himself Lieutenant Little. The first thing he takes note of is that the man is, by no means, little. At least, not when compared to Maccready, and it only serves to make him feel smaller. Despite how weary he is, he makes an effort to stand up straight, ignores how uncomfortable it feels after years of slouching. It doesn't make him feel any more confident. Probably doesn't make him appear as such, either. ]

I don't know you. [ Stated as evenly as he can manage; an indication of how forthcoming he'll be depending on how the Lieutenant responds. ] You here to perform a citizen's arrest or something?

[ There's absolutely no humour in his tone, above all he just sounds resigned. Truly, if Milton wanted to find a way to enforce the law, what choice would Maccready have to comply? ]

[ It's an odd sensation when he hears those footsteps approaching the door from the other side. It isn't relief, necessarily — Little does not enjoy confrontation, and certainly has no idea what to expect from this man who may very well become hostile with him. Perhaps he should have brought someone with him for assistance (Lt. Irving or Miss Earp are the first to spring to mind) but surely the sight of two bodies at one's doorstep might be perceived unfavourably. No man does well when he feels cornered, outnumbered.

But he's.. relieved, in a sense, that MacCready is in fact home; at least this can be dealt with sooner rather than later. (...Especially considering that he doesn't know if the man might pose a threat to more people. He'd shot two....)

The door creaks open and part of a man's face peeks out — immediately (and justifiably) wary of his intention. Edward stiffens, not affronted by the words, only meaning to remain professional, his own shoulders squared, his posture straight. He lifts one gloved hand in what he means to be reassurance, shakes his head. ]

I assure you, I have no such intentions. [ ...Though the question lingers, uncomfortable and unwelcomed, the same thing that had plagued him when he'd wanted to do something immediately about Cornelius Hickey and was at a loss. What is to be done with a dangerous individual, in this place? They can't just be... locked up forever. A trial? And then what after...? ]

I only wanted to speak with you myself, if you would allow it. [ He nods, hesitating only a moment before adding— ] Beyond the circulation of rumours.

[ Taking people at their word is not something he enjoys; at home, it's safer not to, to assume someone is out for you in some way. Things here are so complicated, instead they feel like echoes of the things he's been told of the past, of how the world is supposed to work. There's no reason he should believe this man, that if he opens the door proper and allows him inside, he won't be manhandled to the ground or dragged away and thrown somewhere until they decide what to do with him, or forget about him entirely.

The fact the man is alone, though, it is in his favour. Easier to believe his intentions; easier for Maccready to make some kind of attempt to slip away if he isn't true to his word. Not that he knows where he would go, or what he would do if such a circumstance arose. Likely, it would just make things worse for him.

He chews on his bottom lip as he stares at him, scrutinises him, really. It's against his better judgement that acquiesces (but then, isn't everything these days), and cants his head into a barely-there nod. Stepping aside, opening the door enough to allow the man in. ]

Hardly rumours, are they?

[ Again, part of Little's mind can't help fretting over the possibility that the other man won't be open to the idea — will draw back and shut his door, and then what will he do? What can he possibly do? This has to be... dealt with.

Fortunately, Maccready is willing enough to hear him out, and the other man nods again in return, grateful. He'll carefully let himself in, willing the heavy step of his boots to trek a bit lighter, but without his shotgun his gait is smoother anyway.

'hardly rumours' — Little turns his head to look back at him once he's inside, watching Maccready uncertainly for a moment. Is that... it's a confession, then...? Or something very like it? Little wets his lower lip with his tongue, a nervous habit that he hasn't quite been able to shed. ]

Perhaps the details of... certain events have become layered in gossip, in which I place no value.

[ There are truths, beneath even the most violent of acts. This man deserves a chance to explain without any pre-existing prejudices. ]

I seek to condemn no one, only to protect the members of this community. ....That includes you, Mr. Maccready.

[ Bigby has noticed Maccready's attempts.

Not at first, obviously. He can't even see anything from his house, especially when at first he can't even get out of bed. But slowly, bit by bit, he hears about the other's abandoned attempts. People who talk about having seen him near the house. First it seems a coincidence, but the more Bigby hears about it, the more he feels like it means something. Does Maccready want to come see him? Fuck, he probably feels bad about it if he never actually shows up despite clearly hanging around the house, right?

It's that thought that gets Bigby - unstable, wobbly on his own feet - out of bed eventually. It's definitely not close to the incident, but maybe a week or two after, when he can slowly start to walk just a little bit again. Not far, no, but just far enough that he can actually get out of his bedroom, and out of the house. He couldn't muster up the energy to put on his coat the proper way, but it's draped over the man's shoulders, and at least he did get his boots on. It's something.

If he manages to spot Maccready nearby - since it's not like Bigby can go that far, the man still definitely does not look like he's doing great - he'll let out an exhale deep enough to sound like a sigh, before weakly saying: ]

Just come in.

[ That Bigby has noticed him isn't really that surprising, Maccready isn't exactly being subtle. In spite of that though, of loitering around the man's home and the general surroundings, Bigby himself is not who Maccready expects to see. It's evident that's the case by the way he stares at him; a cocktail of mixed emotions flitting across his face before he finally lands on something close to incredulous, because, well— ]

S-should you be out here?

[ Until, of course, he remembers himself and his face falls into a pained sort of grimace, halfway between apologetic and embarrassed. He pulls his coat around him, shrinking in on himself. Bigby looks… well, he looks like shit, but at the same time he looks better than Maccready'd imagined he would, having let his mind run wild. ]

I— You, uh, that's—

[ Maccready is obviously struggling for words in the face of Bigby's invite. The man should be telling him to get lost, not inviting him inside. He should be angrier. Maybe the man simply doesn't want to start a scene where others can see. That's reasonable. Dropping his head, he mutters out a quiet acquiescence, dejected. ]

… okay.

[ The way Maccready seems to need a few moments to reach that answer feels agonizing. Mostly because Bigby really doesn't feel well enough to be out here - Maccready is totally right in that sense. He shouldn't be out here. It isn't good for him. But Bigby was starting to figure this was about the only way at this point to actually get the other to come inside.

It seems like he was right about that one.

So when the other gives in, Bigby just nods, not giving any other answer as he turns around to walk back into the house. Even if it's more of a wobble than a walk, honestly - it looks like it takes the man great effort even just to do this much, though he thankfully doesn't drop into the snow from either a stumble or exhaustion. Instead he actually manages to make it inside, discarding his coat on the floor - look, taking it off takes enough effort already, they can't expect him to actually put effort into being neat too. The man wobbles all the way over to his bedroom, sitting down on the side of his bed. Or maybe dropping down is a more adequate way to put it, since it truly is just the last of his energy leaving him, his knees feeling weak at this point from the strain of merely going outside.

He lets out a slow, tired breath again before he speaks up. Rather than saying anything Maccready might expect Bigby to say in this situation, he just starts with: ]

.. you alright?

[ He might have managed it, eventually, without the prodding. Though, Bigby probably expedited the process significantly. Maccready follows in silence, unsure if he should even speak, deciding that not doing so is probably for the better — he doesn't want to go and stick his foot in his mouth before he actually gets a chance to apologise — instead, he keeps his eyes focused on the man, watching the unsteadiness of his gait. It is a blessedly short trip, all things considered, and Maccready continues to leave a few paces between them even as he follows the man into his home.

Once inside, he remains silent, expects some kind of annoyed jab about recklessness, irresponsibility, or the sheer fucking audacity he must have to have been lingering around — he's the last person Bigby wants to see, he's sure. Bigby's actual words have him momentarily floored, mouth agape as he openly stares, as if the man across from him is now the one that's lost his mind. ]

I— What?

[ Eloquent as ever, he merely blinks. Maybe he'd misheard. Maybe he's still the one imagining things. An awkward amount of time passes, Maccready still looking somewhat taken aback by the question, he shakes his head — an attempt at clearing it of whatever metaphorical fog is still left behind — but Bigby's gaze is still on him, and it's becoming apparent he should say something. ]

Kinda feel like that's what I should be asking you, honestly…

[ It's not an answer by any definition. There's an unsubtle drift of his eyes; from Bigby's face and down towards his torso. He feels ill. ]

It feels like shit.

[ He's not even being direct as some sort of punishment for Maccready, really. It's just that Bigby naturally is like this. He probably couldn't put it in a way that's more gentle even if he'd try. It just feels like shit, how is a wolf of all things supposed to find any other kind of wording for that? ]

.. but it's getting better. [ Bigby adds, making it a little more clear that his description wasn't a dig meant for the other. ] It's healing, just more slowly than I'd like.

[ Especially when the healing pace he's used to is more like 'a day at most'.. Meanwhile it's been weeks and he still feels like shit. Humans bodies are the worst. ]

I figured a guy who's constantly loitering near my house without actually coming there isn't feeling much better than that though. [ The man adds, turning the attention back around to Maccready himself. ]

[Connor had been hanging around Bigby nearly every minute until his father told him to get out because he was driving him crazy. Figuring he needed to blow the dust off himself, he went outside. He'd filched one of his father's cigarettes and a lighter, so he lit one up as he stood outside. Connor normally didn't smoke, but under the circumstances, it seemed like the right call.

He was just flicking away a bit of ash and then taking another drag when he noticed Maccready. He breathed out, the smoke hanging there in the cold air. He was a little angry with the man for having shot Bigby but he was observant to notice RJ didn't look very happy with what he'd done, so Connor was willing to give him a small amount of leeway on the matter.]

If I'd have known you were coming, I'd've baked a cake.

[Once again, despite the circumstances, his reflex was to fall back into his usual flirting. It was his comfort zone.]

Huh?

[ The comment leaves him dumbfounded, cuts right through the initial pause that seeing Connor here gives him. He blinks up at the other man, as if he's waiting for something else, but moments pass and nothing else is said, and Maccready is left with the thoughts swimming in his head. If he's learned anything, it's that Bigby is well-liked — rightfully so, in his opinion, really — but Connor is fairly new here and—

Realisation hits, his eyes widening as the penny drops. Maybe it's something about the shape of the other man's jaw that has it slide into place. He'd introduced himself in the Community Hall, and Maccready had thought it to be a coincidence at the time; Connor Wolf — and here he is now, not too far from Bigby Wolf's cabin — he doesn't think it's mere coincidence now.

Connor has to be around his age, surely, not much older at the very least. Bigby never mentioned having any kids when Maccready's own had come up — not that he's under some kind of obligation to share — but it had sounded like the opposite, actually. The way in which he'd said it must suck… It didn't sound like he was speaking from experience. So, what, a younger brother? Connor said he had siblings… but he'd said they were septuplets, or something. ]

Oh, for… You're related?

[ Is what eventually leaves his lips, a little strained, slightly exasperated; though mostly with himself. If Maccready had looked miserable before, this certainly isn't helping matters. ]

[Well, this had been bound to happen sooner or later. Connor hadn't precisely been keeping it a secret that he and Bigby were related but he also wasn't out there advertising it either. If it came up in the natural course of talking with someone, he'd acknowledge it, but so far it hadn't.

Still, you'd think he would have at least come up with a more succinct explanation for the moment it actually finally happened for the first time. But he hadn't. This is why Connor was as pretty as he was brainless sometimes.]

Yeah. I'm his son.

[There was an awkward pause before he went on.]

I know it sounds weird.

[Bigby looked maybe like he was in his late thirites at the oldest and that was on a bad day. The math definitely didn't look like it was going to add up here with Connor being somewhere in the range of his early twenties.]

Oh.

[ Well. Shit. He shot someone's father. Unbidden, the thought enters his mind of just how many people has he hurt, or killed, who had families? It's different at home, sure. At home, it's about survival, but he can't help think on it. ]

No, it's uh, well. It's a little weird, I guess, but…

[ He gives a small shake of his head, the faintest trace of humour present across his features for a second, before falling back into something more neutral. More appropriate for the situation. His assumption, based on how Bigby had spoken, is that there's been some timeline fuckery. It's the only plausible thing on his mind, and it wouldn't be the first time he's experienced such a thing here.

It doesn't matter, that's not important. ]

Look, I— There was— [ Trying to verbalise why it happened, that's not really important either. It's not really an excuse. ] … I'm sorry.

[ It's quiet, but genuine, and he meets Connor's eyes as he says it. Sure, he's not the only person who should be getting an apology, but it feels justified, given the apparent closeness. ]

[Connor took in a big breath and let it out as a long sigh before he answered. He couldn't lie and say some part of him wasn't mad at the other man for shooting Bigby in the first place. But it hadn't been done maliciously and so he wasn't about to hold onto a pointless grudge.]

Apology accepted.

[Then he added on:]

You know, if I thought you'd done it on purpose, you'd be missing a few teeth and have a broken nose right now.

[He wouldn't have killed Maccready, not when Bigby hadn't died, but he would have been all too willing to beat him up a little to gain some satisfaction. And really, it would have been a shame to bust up someone as good-looking as RJ was, so Connor was glad he didn't have to.]

[ How is it possible for a sigh to sound so ominous? Maccready doesn't know, but he's certain it can't be good — he braces himself, for curses or angered outbursts; all of which he'd deserve — the fact that that's not what happens is frankly a little baffling. He's so used to operating on the laws of the Wasteland, or lack thereof, that the reality he hasn't already had his face caved in is nothing short of a miracle.

When Connor makes as much known, that that is what would have happened, Maccready almost finds it funny. Almost, because he doesn't doubt Connor could have — and should have, really — done a number on him. Maccready's no stranger to being on the receiving ends of someone's fists, he's almost certain he's had his nose broken at least once. Absent-mindedly, he rubs the bridge of his nose with the pad of his thumb.

Still, he finds it hard to believe. He blinks, owlish almost, at the other man. ]

You're— That's it?

[ He's not trying to push his luck, truly, but he expected something… more. More resistance, more anger, more hostility. Not whatever this is, a simple acceptance. ]

[Connor sighed again, biting the inside of one cheek as he put his gloved hands into the jacket he was wearing. It looked a bit oversized and ill-fitting on him, so it wasn't hard to guess it actually belonged to Bigby, though that could only really be confirmed by getting close enough to the odor of cigar smoke that completely permeated the fabric.]

What, do you want me to hold a grudge forever? Look, I'm not saying having my dad get shot didn't piss me off immensely, and under different circumstances I wouldn't be so quick to forgive you. But it was an accident, so there's no point in acting like you were deliberately try to kill him. We've got bigger problems on our hands right now and fighting among ourselves is only going hurt us all when there's so few of us here.

[Connor could be a bit of an impulsive dumbass sometimes. But he'd grown up in a wolf pack and as a Fable, so he knew there was times to be angry and times to set that aside for the good of the group. Right now, it was better that they all tried to work together, so that was influencing his thinking quite a bit. The fact Bigby wasn't holding a grudge either was also a big deciding factor in how to approach the situation.]

Well, no, not really, but…

[ He'd really rather not have grudges held against him over this, truthfully. Though, he'd understand if people did, he'd just prefer that grudges came with like… actual intent on his half, at least. Those he can manage, those he's used to. He shakes his head, tilts it to the side. ]

Forgiveness is a bit of a foreign concept at home.

[ Not unheard of, but certainly short in supply — in Maccready's typical circles, anyway — being on the receiving end of it for something so significant feels a little… Odd. Uncomfortable? Not that how he feels is of any priority in this instance. Or maybe it's the implication it was an accident. He very much had been trying to kill Bigby, granted he hadn't entirely been in his right mind but… he was aware of it, his actions, twisted by images he never thought he'd see here. Accident feels far too generous. ]

I don't… I knew what I was doing, even if why I was doing it wasn't exactly— [ he sighs, searching for the right words. ] If it hadn't been for the fog, the insomnia… Seeing things? It never would have happened but… Well, none of that matters right now, I guess.

[ This isn't about him and his trauma. He's not about to unpack all that in the middle of a snowy street. ]

Is he… Is he alright?

Yeah, well, get used to it.

[It wasn't really a concept known to either wolves or wind spirits. Wolves saw things mostly in black-and-white and wind spirits were fickle as the changing winds themselves. But there was also a large portion of Connor that was human as well. So sometimes he leaned more into that side of himself than he otherwise might have.

At the mention of Bigby, Connor's jaw tightened up a little bit, though he wasn't so much made at RJ as he was at the entire situation they were stuck in, which just fucking sucked on so many levels.]

....He's been better.

[Connor said in a short tone, betraying that he was perhaps a little more annoyed than he'd first let on. Though mainly he was just upset that his dad was hurt at all. It was a deep-seated fear, that his family would get hurt and he would be helpless to protect them.]

i'll tell you now, i didn't even mean it — open

ota —

Good intentions

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Good intentions

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a brief respite

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kind of wildcarding!!

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Good Intentions

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