sixthiterationlogs | At first disguised by hollow warmth

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At first disguised by hollow warmth

WHO: Bobo Del Rey
WHERE: North Village
WHEN: Middle of January
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Will update as needed

Words echo in Bobo's head. Things that Willa said to him, that Vasquez has said, Bull, Wynonna, voices he hasn't heard in over a century. It's easy to ignore those words in your head when you're busy keeping nearly a hundred revenants from getting out of control and killing everyone in the Ghost River Triangle. It's another trying to quiet them when you're in a place where you're seen as a peer and a friend and not merely some hellspawn to be killed to break a curse.

Which only makes it that much harder.

Having spent so much time in the south village, Bobo decided to give a week to getting things ready where he lives in hopes that if winter descends, they'll all make it.

So he spends more time working on converting the police station into a barn for the kirin, chickens and whatever else the cowboys decide to bring home. Clearing out much of the walls that aren't load bearing, and even tearing up the floor in parts of it, to use making a pen to one end for the chick where they can be held and have ground to scratch at.

He takes time seeing that the forge is in working order, hoping to find and mine enough to fashion horse shoes for the kirin. They were keeping their hooves trimmed back, but shoes would make things better for them, to see to them a they grow and may one day become mounts for them.

Most afternoons he can be found on the front porch of their house by the forge, his lap covered in a piece of hide from something he first killed and cured, and working to use one rock to shear bits from another rock. The ledge of the porch rail is lined with his experiments, dangerously sharp arrowheads and larger "blades" that didn't go quite right but show progress in knapping the stone just right into a blade. His hands too show the work, cuts in various degrees of healing marking his knuckles and palms.

It's sitting on that porch that he's approached, in a way, one day by a creature he well knows. A moose that meanders through the "front yard", pausing to sniff at this or that as is makes its way through the village. It's a familiar enough sight to Purgatory, especially back when Robert Svane made a homestead so far North, that Bobo finds himself nearly giggling, then laughing until he has to set aside the things he's working on, digging the heels of his hands against his eyes and staunching tears that he would swear had everything to do with the laughter and nothing else.

All around the house he's chosen show signs of the things he's working on, from boards with pelts stretched over them, to sinew drawn tight between sticks and drying, and several long staff looking saplings in various degrees of drying that he plans to eventually split for bows. So much of it is trial and error, being aware of the basics of how to assemble and make all of it, but also having been a being a fucking mouse in velvet and glasses. The practical experience isn't there, even if the knowledge is, and Bobo is playing off all of it to try and ensure that he and the roommates, those he also considers his people, can make it in this place and thrive.

All the while trying to ignore the voices in his head, the things that others have said to him, and that voice that he barely recognizes from a man that gave up his life for a town that condemned him for a eternity, not yet realizing how soon that forever existence might end.

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It's a hell of a hike when you're not used to walking through snow.

It's not really super far, and Foggy is not only used to walking, but is slowly getting fitter and healthier thanks to enforced exercise and better eating.

He can hear laughter.

And he sees a moose.

... they're really, really big.

He moves to the side, staying well out of its way until it moves on and then he runs past it and down towards Bobo's place. "I just saw a mother fucking moose strolling around!"

Bobo is meant to be working on the stone blades he's been trying his hand at, but the truth of the matter is, he's too amused by the moose. In part because it feels like home. In part because first there was the salamander in their fireplace, settled in and enjoying the warmth and eating the things they leave for it. Now a moose.

One of them was a damned Disney princess.

Laughing softly as Foggy comes scurrying up, giving him a look. "Did you get lost?" Though he just laughs more at that comment. "There is. No clue where he came from but he wants to be part of the family, he can be."

"No, I didn't get lost, I walked down here, it was a mother fucking moose! That thing is big enough for Fisk to ride down the fucking street!"

Foggy isn't usually such a potty mouth, but... moose.

It shouldn't be funny, but it really is. "No idea who Fisk is, but never known anyone to ride one. You want to try?" Arching a brow, knowing he's likely to get more cursing over that.

"Take it you haven't been around a lot of wildlife then?"

"Nooo, I'm not an animal person. Fisk is Matty's personal nemesis, and he is a huge guy. Six five? Three hundred pounds? He's big." He shoves his gloved hands into his pockets, hunkering into his scarf more. "I grew up in New York City. My idea of wildlife is rats, racoons and gang members. Have you been stone napping?"

"He could get up there, sure, would be a good steed for him," he says, still finding enjoyment in the entirety of the conversation. He never thought about it. Even in the bigger cities up near Purgatory, people ran into moose from time to time.

"You miss a lot staying in the city. From a guy that could never really go into a big city," he notes, chuckles. Though he does nod. "Trying my hand at it. Why? You ever done it?"

"Bobo, I'm a pudgy, pasty city boy, the wilderness is my natural predator. That and corporate lawyers."

He wrinkled his nose. "Nup. Nothing like it. I can sharpen knives and scissors, that's as far as my experience goes. I've been taking them home and sharpening them up as needed."

"Never done it myself, but want more at my side than just the knives meant for use by others," he admits, which says a lot about the way he's adjusting to this place, and how he sees these people as his own. "Mostly I'm learning how well I bleed," he admits, holding up one hand and showing the healing cuts.

He falls quiet for a long time though, looking Foggy over before making an admission. "That could be used to describe me," he admits.

"... you're a hazard to yourself," Foggy sighs fondly. "Have you considered chasing up some gloves for while you work... what could describe you?"

"You want to make things happen, you take risks and you get hurt," he says, shrugging. Though it's obvious he's working on being more careful.

There's no chuckle this time, none of that twisted smirk. "Pudgy, pasty city boy."

Foggy looks at Bobo.

Tall. Tanned. Lean muscle.

"I am judging you. For both those statements."

"What? You think I looked like this a century ago?" Arching a brow, deadly serious in that moment. "I was literally the epitome of a well suited mouse," he says, tones bitter. "And I died that way as well."

"... I don't know, I guess I sort of assumed you did?" He comes up the steps to lean against the railing. "And there was probably a lot less processed sugars in people's diets, which, has been hellishly difficult here, like, I think I spent the first week with a withdrawal headache for the sugar and caffeine."

Bobo chuckles at that. "I admit, never thought about that," he says, not having suffered those effects in his lifetime.

Quiet a moment, considering how to explain this. Hell, considering how much he wants to explain.

"Maybe not so much pudgy, but I was not the image of cowboy or rancher you see in movies. Certainly not outlaw," he says with a hard laugh.

"Oh, it was hell. I basically was made of processed sugar and caffeine, I wanted to curl up and die." But he'd turned up at work every day instead.

"Well... most people weren't? Bankers, clerks, tailors, milliners, general stores, farmers, mail carriers... Lawyers. They all made the old West function."

"By the time those became regulars in diets, I was a revenant. Never bothered me," he says, smirking. He may be a bit smug about that and a dick. "I never thought about it for others here. Just the alcoholics like Wynonna." And he had taken delight in that as well.

"Most people have an image, and some didn't fit that other. Some were mousy and obsessive and overdressed, and without the sort of spine a person needs. They followed men who used them, and in the end betrayed and abandoned them," he says, speaking as if it wasn't him. Not in the least. "And in our town, we lacked a lot of those. Why there were so many for Earp to curse."

"And Jessica. She's an alcoholic. Came by it pretty honestly though." Again, he doesn't divulge details, they're not his to give.

"Isn't that... just life?" A lot of followers, a lot of scared people. "I'm a dedicated coward, me. I don't brave things."

"One of the roommates is one too. He's been a bitch the entire time," he says, rolling his eyes. "And just as he was getting better, that party happened. Now he's back where he started."

And in part he does worry about him. All for Vasquez's sake.

"Not in Purgatory it really wasn't. I did a lot of brave things," he says, shrugging. "They don't pay off. Stay a coward, Foggy."

"Detoxing from booze is dangerous. The withdrawal can kill for long term alcoholics. Luckily, a one night relapse won't... Did I moosh your face at New year's Eve?" He winces. "I'm sorry, I lose boundaries when I'm drunk."

Anything Bobo is about to say is lost in that moment when Foggy remembers. Slowly he nods, fighting not to smile.

"Oh yeah, you definitely did that. It was weird, but in a way, helpful," he admits.

"... sorry. Not sorry. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable, that was never my intention. Lord only knows what my intention was, but it was probably a good one?"

"Well, you did, but..." He shakes his head, not sure about the words. "It's been a long time since most would be that open with me. I'm not the kind of person to do that to in Purgatory now. It reminded me of things that Vasquez has been telling me."

That he can be who he wants to be. Not Bobo Del Rey.

"Sorry for that, then." He nods slightly. "You can be someone else here."

"Don't be sorry, Foggy," he says, moving to stand up. "Come on in. No moose inside, though there is a fire salamander," he admits, chuckling.

"And one day I may be able to be myself. I'm not even sure who I am anymore. Especially not here, but I don't have the ability to figure it out right now."

"... hang on, a what?"

Foggy moves for the door anyway, clearly eager to find out.

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