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you hold the cigarette to your wrist but barely flinch at the pain. it's nothing, now. you're used to it. you laugh. it's a bitter, hateful thing that spills from your lips without your permission. it's not fucking fair.
you were never a good kid, not really. you didn't even try your best. you had learned by the time that you were six that being kind got you taken advantage of, and had learned by eight that being good left you stuck in place. so you got mean. you got tough, and cold, and the staff at the orphanage looked at you with pity—until you set one of their skirts on fire, that is. then they looked at you with anger and, maybe, a tinge of fear. you savoured it. you revelled in it. it gave you power over someone.
the smoke snaps you out of it. you smell your own sizzling flesh, and that hurts you worse than the pain. you had spent the longest time believing you had burnt to death before that conversation with jonny.
you'd been talking about your first deaths, the ones that had led to mechanisation. it was... a quiet moment. you were laying next to eachother on your bed, staring at the ceiling and smoking. 'y'know, ashes, you died of smoke inhalation. i was there, watched the doc through the whole process. didn't wanna leave ya alone. plus, she hated people in her lab while she was working, an' at that moment i was more pissed at her than i had been in a while. for pickin' ya up. you keep talkin' 'bout burnin' to death, but tha's not right.'
you're shaking. you take the cigarette off your wrist and the burn heals in seconds. you need something more. smoking used to do it for you, back when you... still had lungs. now, you can brand yourself with white hot metal and hardly feel a thing. nothing scares you anymore, not really. well. except for losing them. the crew is your family, in some fucked up way. sure, you all hate eachother, but so do most families. any of them that don't are either all on drugs, lying, or part of a cult.
you looked after them, the younger kids in the orphanage. hell, even most of the older ones. you'd set one of the bitchier attendants on fire. even the goody-two-shoes kids admired you for that. so, you took their blame. you took their punishments. you looked out for all of them. not without pay, obviously. bread rolls from the younger ones, cigarettes from some of the teens, a toy here, some candies there, you had a whole damn bargaining system set up. you had power.
you would never admit it out loud, but you missed mickey sometimes. he was the first family you'd ever had, even if he was shit at it. he'd given you your first real birthday party, your first cig, your first... first... you don't want to think about that, actually. one of the firsts he didn't give you was your first beating, but he sure as hell gave you your most memorable.
'ASHES,' he roared, loud enough that the house shook. you were twelve. you should know better than to piss the fucking bed at this point. your hands covered your ears and you curled up as tears welled in your eyes. 'you fucking idiot of a kid. i took you outta there so you could help us, not piss your pants like a little bitch. look at me, ashes. LOOK AT ME.' you curled in on yourself further and sobbed. 'you poor little baby, crying about it. you gonna piss yourself again, huh? you're fucking useless.' he grabbed you by your hair, pulling you up. you didn't even have time to process what was going on before he hit you in the face. you stood there on your tiptoes, held up only by your curls in his hand. you were shaking as his hand came down again and again. afterwards he dragged you to the washroom, cleaned up your face so gently, and shaved your head. you hated him for that for a long time.
the cigarette had burnt out a long time ago. the stub lay on the bed beside you. you curl up on your side, hugging your knees. you're fully sobbing now, and would be hyperventilating if... if you could. immortality never bugged you much, really. not like it did jonny, or tim, or... you didn't actually know much of what the rest of the crew thought about it. they went to brian to talk, mostly, and you for more solid, grounding comfort. you had never been great at verbal reassurance.
you'd heard a muffled scream, a clanging noise, and sobs from behind the door. 'tim?' no response. you tried the door, it was locked. you banged on it, hard. 'tim, i'll be in my quarters if you need me.' you started to walk away. the door opened. 'wait—' you turned slowly. 'mine or yours?' you asked, not making a move towards or away from him. '...yours, please,' he said weakly, after a moment. he didn't end up talking about what was hurting him so badly, but you sat in bed with him and watched some shitty earth movie, holding him the whole time.
you're ashes o'reilly. you don't need anyone else, you just need them to need you. you needed to be better than them. you keep your anger in check because to show it is to be vulnerable and to be vulnerable is to fail, you joke and laugh like you don't give a shit about anything because you can't because it's only going to turn its teeth on you eventually, you act like you're better than everyone else because you know, deep down, that you're so much worse. you figure this way, maybe you can reach some sort of middle ground.
-
you're not sure when you fell asleep, but your room reeks of cigarettes and burnt hair and your head is pounding. there's a note and... a box? on your bedside table.
hey ashes, thought you'd like these. -jdv
you smile weakly. you open the box and there's those fancy chocolates jonny knows you like, even though you'd never said anything about it. maybe you're okay.