bartholomew
"Maybe I will," he antagonizes further, because Bart has never known when to stop picking at a scab. And fuck that sucks because now he has to talk to Melita, but hopefully she'll be more amenable to his presence than the Flood's given he was cooler the one who'd often kept her company in the house.
His shoulder jerks with the aborted desire to grab Sunjata by the shirt and shake him because of course he's not fucking wearing one. As if Bart wants to see the reminders on his skin - the carvings, the handwriting, the tattoos. "I'm not sayin' you didn't fuckin' love him!" Spat like an alley cat promising a fight with its back to the wall. "But ya sure didn't fight to the very end like he did, huh?" Always the one to fight back against the injustices the Ascended had faced, putting his body and mind on the line constantly. "And yer still runnin' to Frey, who clearly didn't fuckin' save him the way they promised." The pair hadn't let Bart in on the specifics, but Frey helping to establish the sanctuary had been a huge part of their small, kindled hope that Nate would make it through the war. Bart hates them almost as much as he hates The Voice for having forced Nate to answer the call.
It's misguided. He knows it is. That doesn't mean he cares.
"If not you, who? You, who everyone knows the name of, good or bad. You coulda used your infamy for good. You coulda made a fuckin' monument! I don't know what you coulda done but anything would've been better than -" his voice chokes up in a loud click of his tongue in his throat, against his will, and the rest comes out pitched and shattered, "- than more fuckin' silence."
Like how he'd been refused the right to put Nate's obituary in the papers because of the way he'd died. How his belongings had mostly been burned because they hadn't understood the disease and how it spread. How his bed had been turned over to the next poor sod. Easily forgotten by everyone, by the world at large. But never, never, by Bart.
His shoulder jerks with the aborted desire to grab Sunjata by the shirt and shake him because of course he's not fucking wearing one. As if Bart wants to see the reminders on his skin - the carvings, the handwriting, the tattoos. "I'm not sayin' you didn't fuckin' love him!" Spat like an alley cat promising a fight with its back to the wall. "But ya sure didn't fight to the very end like he did, huh?" Always the one to fight back against the injustices the Ascended had faced, putting his body and mind on the line constantly. "And yer still runnin' to Frey, who clearly didn't fuckin' save him the way they promised." The pair hadn't let Bart in on the specifics, but Frey helping to establish the sanctuary had been a huge part of their small, kindled hope that Nate would make it through the war. Bart hates them almost as much as he hates The Voice for having forced Nate to answer the call.
It's misguided. He knows it is. That doesn't mean he cares.
"If not you, who? You, who everyone knows the name of, good or bad. You coulda used your infamy for good. You coulda made a fuckin' monument! I don't know what you coulda done but anything would've been better than -" his voice chokes up in a loud click of his tongue in his throat, against his will, and the rest comes out pitched and shattered, "- than more fuckin' silence."
Like how he'd been refused the right to put Nate's obituary in the papers because of the way he'd died. How his belongings had mostly been burned because they hadn't understood the disease and how it spread. How his bed had been turned over to the next poor sod. Easily forgotten by everyone, by the world at large. But never, never, by Bart.
Wake up, or you'll wake up six feet down
nobody's got your back in this town
nobody's got your back in this town
