This story can also be found on Archive of Our Own under the same penname. The version there will be more explicit in way of sexual content.

Disclaimer:

1.) 'Fargo' belongs to Ethan and Joel Coen.

2.) The title of the story can be found in Anna Akhmatova's poem, 'You Will Hear Thunder.'

3.) 'My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark' belongs to Fall Out Boy.

A/N:

1.) I know how annoying original characters can be, but I just couldn't get this out of my system any other way than writing it down. Besides, I have a few other non-original character Fargo stories in mind, mostly involving Mr. Wrench/Molly Solverson. x3 (The side pairing for this story is Gus/Molly instead.) But for now, I hope this turns out to be a fun read, original character and all. xDD

Trigger(s) for this story:

Language-including ableist and sexist language, sexual content (most of which will be toned down on this site), sl*t shaming, and violence.

Chapter One

B-B-B-Be careful making wishes in the dark, dark

Can't be sure when they've hit their mark

"Hey. Look at that cutie over there."

No response except for a sigh and roll of the eyes.

"Bitch, don't you roll your eyes at me."

"Whatever."

She takes a sip of her drink, Jack and Coke. Sweet, too sweet. She wants vodka, but is already tipsy enough as it is. The bar is filled with a variety of sounds: people talking, glasses clinking, people playing pool, and a voice on television yammering on about some sports game.

"C'mon, at least look at the guy."

"Which guy? Almost everybody here is male."

"Over there."

"Where is there exactly? Who exactly am I supposed to be looking at?"

Her answer is an annoyed huff, and a jab of the finger in the direction of a red-haired man slouched at a table near the bar.

"You're not looking."

She allows herself a slight glance, taking in the man's short red-brown hair and the strong build beneath his fringed coat, then goes back to her drink. She takes another sip. Almost all gone; she really wants a shot of vodka.

"You got nothing to say about that?"

She spares another look, more wary this time. The redhead's quiet, but there's an underlying tension in the way he's sitting, a position that belies relaxation, but she can tell that he's pissed off. Quiet, drunk, and pissed off is not a good combination; it's the kind of drunk that should be avoided more than anything else.

"I can't see him well, but I guess he looks good from here."

She can only see the back of his head and a bare outline of his face; she wouldn't mind seeing more. She likes redheads.

"Jesus, if you want to get a better look at him, let's move to that table over there."

Before she can protest, her Best Friend snatches up both of their drinks and makes her way over to an empty table positioned closer to the bar and a few feet directly across from where the redhead's sitting. She sighs and follows, if only to finish the rest of her damn drink. As she sits down in her new seat, she notices with some unease that the redhead looks even more angrier up close. When he's not glaring at his drink, he's scowling at a dark-haired man who is standing by the bar, currently chugging down a glass of beer as if his life depended upon it. He's deliberately ignoring the redhead's glares. She can tell that there's some sort of building tension between the two and she wants no part of it.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Go say something to him, you chickenshit!"

"What the hell would I say to a complete stranger?"

"Well, most people who are hardwired to interacting with their fellow humans usually start off a conversation with the standard "hi," but seeing as you've been malfunctioning since birth, you still need me to give you guidance." Chickenshit cringes. Best Friend had said that a little louder than was necessary, and they were now receiving some odd stares.

Great, now that dick by the bar is snickering. Like he has anything to chuckle about; not with all that facial hair and that ridiculous hairstyle. Who slicks their hair back like that anyway? Douches, that's who.

Chickenshit knocks back the rest of her drink, savoring the dregs at the bottom of the cup. She's not nearly drunk enough for Best Friend's usual bullshit. Pulling herself up from her chair, she makes her way to the bar, ignoring Best Friend's request for another drink (lazyass can get it herself) and orders a shot of vodka straight up. The bartender eyes her warily, taking in her five foot two build and the whiskey on her breath. She's about to say something pissy, but the bartender serves her her vodka and she immediately knocks it back, enjoying the warm, tingling sensation that crawls from her throat all the way down to the pit of her stomach.

"Hey bitch! Bring me one!" Chickenshit rolls her eyes and gives Best Friend the finger. Half the bar is now staring at the two women like they're crazy and the bartender looks annoyed. Best Friend inspired these sorts of looks everywhere she went. Chickenshit usually had the misfortune of being with her when Best Friend decided to make an ass out of herself.

Chickenshit orders a second shot. Then a third. As she's drinking the third shot, she catches the dark-haired man watching her. She feels a flare of anger when he looks her up and down, from head to toe, with an expression of contempt. He then starts making a series of complicated (to her, anyway) hand signs, but not at her. Looking over her shoulder, Chickenshit notices that the redhead is signing back. If the look on his face and the furious way he was signing was anything to go by, he was pissed. She watched them go back and forth, mesmerized. The dark-haired man shot her an annoyed look, as if she were intruding on some private conversation, despite the fact that he was the one having it out with his friend very publicly in, of all places, a bar. Refusing to be intimidated, she continued watching.

At one point in their silent, yet intense conversation, the redhead slams his hands down on the table and was in the motions of jumping out of his seat, as if he was going to lunge at his companion. Chickenshit flinched at this, but the dark-haired man just rolled his eyes and made a sign that, even to her, who couldn't speak sign language to save her life, was utterly dismissive. Chickenshit expected the redhead to come over and throw the first punch, start the inevitable fight that had been brewing up to a dangerous boil, but he slowly slid back down in his seat, his face contorted with anger. His friend smiles smugly at him before turning back to his drink. Chickenshit released a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding.

Suddenly, I feel like I'm not drunk enough.

Chickenshit orders another shot for herself, then two more, telling the skeptical bartender that one is for Best Friend (it isn't). As she turns to head back to her table with her drinks, she bumps hard into the redhead who apparently has the stealth of a goddamn ninja and had been standing silently behind her, waiting his turn to order another drink. Chickenshit cringes when she notices a dark blot steadily growing on his jacket where she spilled one of the vodkas. She looks up at him (he's practically a whole foot taller than her), expecting him to unleash his anger out on her, but he only stares down at her with vague annoyance.

Now that she's standing closer to him, she realizes just how good-looking he really is. Taking in his green-blue eyes, the well-sculpted face, and the old-fashioned sideburns that would've looked stupid on anyone else but him, Chickenshit, in her accelerated drunken state, mentally notes that the redhead has a very nice face. The kind of face she would give her left ovary to look at during a good fuck instead of being stuck with some loser she wishes would just stick a paper bag over his head so she can pretend that he's Rufus Sewell.

She jumps when she suddenly feels a hand clap down on her shoulder. It's the dark-haired man, and he's laughing his ass off. "That's just cute. Let me tell him what you said. He'll love it."

Chickenshit stares in abject horror as he translates what she said (out loud!?) to the redhead. The redhead stares at her in astonishment, and Chickenshit can't help but think how he cute he looks with his face all scrunched up like that; adorable, really.

Why is that asshole still laughing? Fuck, was I thinking out loud again?

"You sure were!" He claps her on the back in good-natured camaraderie and immediately goes on to translate her comment about how "adorable" she thought the redhead looked. Chickenshit turns her gaze to the floor, feeling her face grow hot.

God, please kill me now. The bar had become uncomfortably quiet (aside from the noise from the t.v. and that dickhead's ongoing laughter) and Best Friend was suddenly standing beside her, tugging at her arm, talking to her in that in the kind of tone that a bestie uses when her friend embarrasses herself and she wants to make a quiet rescue.

Chickenshit dares to take a small glance at the redhead and ducks her head again at the expression on his face. It's unreadable and thus, she expects the worst. Why the hell do I think I out loud whenever I get drunk?

"It's a gift," the dark-haired man replies cheerfully, clapping her on the shoulder again. "Would you like me to translate that one too?"

"Leave her alone, asshole!" Best Friend snaps, shoving his hand away. Turning back to Chickenshit, she says, "C'mon, sweetie, let's go sit down."

She's wearing her best, condescending Mother face (which Chickenshit hates) and she's still tugging at her arm. It's all getting very fucking annoying.

"I don't want to sit down," Chickenshit says, her words slightly slurred and she yanks her arm out of Best Friend's grasp so hard that she staggers and bumps into the redhead. Again.

She's surprised when she feels his firm hands latch onto her shoulders, steadying her. His hands are big and his fingers are long and thin. He's not wearing gloves and she had taken off her overcoat so that she's only in her hoodie and thickest sweater through which she can feel the heat of his hands.

She can feel her face growing hot all over again, but she manages to look up at him and the redhead's face is curiously vacant of expression. Slowly, he removes his hands and before he can get the chance to walk around her, Chickenshit holds out the other vodka that, by some sort of miracle, she managed not to spill when she bumped into him for the second time as a peace offering. He stares at it for a few seconds, stares at her, and then looks back at the vodka. Just when she thinks he's going to refuse it, he accepts the glass, his fingers brushing against hers (was that intentional?). He knocks it back and Chickenshit can't help but stare at the long, smooth column of his throat as he swallows.

When he's through, he makes a noise that seems to convey contentment and places the shotglass on the bar. Much to her surprise, instead of going back to ignoring her as she expected, he makes a hand sign that Chickenshit can only assume means "thank you."

Unfortunately, his dickhead friend feels the need to add his own translation and completely ruin the moment. "He says 'thank you' and could he get a blowjob with that vodka?"

"He did not say that!" Chickenshit snaps at him. At least I hope not.

Asshole Extraordinaire cocks a brow at her. "Who's the one that can speak sign language here?"

"You deliberately misinterpreted what he actually said," Best Friend snarls. Chickenshit is surprised by the hostility in her voice. This guy meets all the requirements of the guys she likes to date.

"Are you accusing me of being an unreliable translator?"

Before Chickenshit can say yes, we are calling you a fucking unreliable translator, the redhead turns from the bar where he was making his order and punches his friend in the shoulder. Dickhead scowls at him and the redhead makes a gesture that clearly states, get lost.

The dark-haired man rolls his eyes and shrugs, ambling off in the direction of the restrooms.

"God, what a prick," Best Friend mutters in disgust before turning to Chickenshit. "As for you, you have clearly had enough to drink. Let's grab our shit and head home."

Chickenshit feels a surge of anger at the order she can hear in Best Friend's tone and is about ready to tell her to go fuck herself (a clear indication of the vodkas working their magic because she never argues with Best Friend), but she is (thankfully) saved from starting a fight with Best Friend when she feels a nudge at her shoulder.

Chickenshit turns around and the redhead wordlessly hands her one of the two drinks he's holding. She can tell it's bourbon by the smell. Even though she knows she's definitely had enough by now, she takes a sip anyway.

"Thanks." Somehow, she manages not to slur it, but took some effort.

He acknowledges her thank-you with a nod and then, much to her surprise, he makes a gesture at her, then at himself, and finally at his table. Chickenshit can't speak sign language (although she now wishes that could), but even she understands what he's trying to convey to her. He wants her to sit and drink with him.

Best Friend, who is still hovering at her side, manages to process this faster than Chickenshit and immediately snatches one of the chairs at their table and drags it over. As the redhead takes his seat, Best Friend hisses some quick advice in her ear (which is ridiculous because the guy's deaf) that involves condoms, sexy underwear, and the best way to take it up the ass, as if Chickenshit's just going to go straight to fucking the redhead on the table in the middle of the bar.

"Look, I'll buy you another drink if you'll back off already," she finally snaps, making a shooing motion at Best Friend. Best Friend gives her the thumbs up and sashays back to the table they had been sharing.

Chickenshit is finally able to sit down, and she and the redhead stare at each other for an awkward moment. She takes a sip of her bourbon, wondering what she could possibly do in making conversation.

Her companion figures it out before she does, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper and a generic pen. He smooths it out on the table, writes something down, and then passes both the paper and the pen over to her. His handwriting is in print, small, neatly-written letters pressed close together exactly on the lines.

You're a lightweight.

Chickenshit feels herself flushing again, and she looks over at him. It's hard to tell in the bar's dim lighting, but she's positive that she's seeing a small smile that transforms his face completely. Somehow, she doesn't feel like she's being made fun of.

She taps the pen on the table while she tries to think of a witty reply, something that'll make him laugh. Can he laugh? If he's deaf, does he laugh out loud or silently? That's a thought for another time.

She's not naturally charming or charismatic like Best Friend, but she's often been told that she has a sort of dry, sarcastic sense of humor. She writes down the first thing that pops up in her mind.

That's why I drink so much. My doctor tells me I could stand to gain a few pounds.

God, it sounds so unbelievably stupid, but it's all she can come up with. Her inebriated state is not helping her at all. She passes the note and pen back over, and she feels something flutter in her stomach when his lips pull up into a smirk. He writes his reply down and passes the note and pen back over.

Your doctor's an idiot. A pretty girl like you seems to know how to have a good time. Is there any way I could convince you to tell me your name? Maybe bribe you with another drink?

It's really happening. A cute guy in a bar is asking for her name. Chickenshit can't stop the smile from taking over her face. Best Friend is right. This isn't such a bad way to pick up guys. Sure, maybe all he's looking for is a one-night stand, but she'll take it. Hell, she'll fucking him in the bathroom if that he's what he wants (to be honest, it's something she's always wanted to do).

You don't need to bribe me to find out my name, is her saucy reply. This one actually earns her a full-fledged smile. She smiles back and he starts writing his reply down.

Unfortunately, as these things tend to go, they are interrupted by the Douchebag Wonder again. "Don't you two look all warm and cozy." His voice is light and amiable, but there's an edge of meanness to it that Chickenshit doesn't like. She wishes that he had fallen headfirst into a toilet. At least then she wouldn't have had to look at his stupid hair anymore.

Even though the redhead couldn't have possibly heard him walk back up to the bar, he must have had some sort of sixth sense because as soon as his dickhead friend made his comment, his head snapped up and he was back to glaring at him. The tension that had dissolved when Chickenshit had sat down with him was back. She got the feeling that there was something bigger going on here.

The dark-haired man slapped his hand down on the bar to get the bartender's attention. "Bartender, I tend to have a, uh, beer and then a little tequila."

The bartender pulls out a glass and comments dryly, "Looks like you already had a few."

"Well then they're working! Alright?" His voice is still light, still friendly.

The bartender serves him his drink and he takes a sip. Then he seems to pick up on the redhead's glares for the first time that evening. "What are you lookin' at?"

Chickenshit feels herself stiffen in her chair. She knows an upcoming fight when she smells it, and the redhead looks about ready to rip out the other man's throat. He slides the note back over to her, but Chickenshit feels so tense that she doesn't even bother to read it, just sticks it in the front pocket of her jeans.

The dark-haired man finishes the rest of his tequila in one gulp. "You know, I'll tell you something."

His voice is no longer friendly.

The redhead leans forward slightly in his seat and Chickenshit prepares herself to leap out of the way when the moment came.

The dark-haired men holds up his empty glass and stares the redhead straight in the eyes. "I. will. put... your eye out!" He yells out the last word and throws his glass down, the sound of it shattering accompanied by the startled yells and gasps of other patrons. Chickenshit dives out of her chair just as the dark-haired man tackles the redhead to the ground.

And it was going so well, Chickenshit thought bitterly as she watched the men grapple with each other. She couldn't help smiling when the redhead got the advantage and got several good punches in.

"Jesus! Are you okay?" Best Friend is standing next to her, tugging insistently at her arm, over and over, and fucking over again.

Maybe it was all the drinks she had. Maybe it was the fact that Best Friend was always fucking trying to get her laid as if she couldn't possibly survive without a one-night stand every other weekend. Maybe it was the way she flaunted herself as a teacher of seduction and made Chickenshit feel like the poor little virgin sitting in the corner wearing a dunce cap. Maybe it was that asshole who interrupted her conversation with the redhead. Or maybe, just maybe, it's the way Best Friend won't stop fucking pulling on her arm.

Whatever it is, Chickenshit finds herself whipping her arm out of Best Friend's grasp and shoves her so hard that Best Friend stumbles into a table that immediately collapses under her, taking Best Friend and all the drinks it held with it. The angry shrieks of the table's occupants rent the air.

Chickenshit finds herself astonished by what she's done, and yet... It's a rush that feels pretty damn good. Best Friend gapes at her from the ground, surrounded by broken glass and drenched in alcohol. Meanwhile, the two men are still going at it. Chickenshit gets momentarily distracted by the dark-haired man shoving the redhead into a glass case containing trophies and other memorabilia.

Best Friend takes advantage of this and tackles her just as Chickenshit focuses her attention on her again. The two women bounce off the bar and fall to the floor, rolling over broken glass and furniture.

As if from a distance, Chickenshit hears the bartender screaming. "Somebody call the damn cops already!"

Best Friend is on top of her, ripping at her hair so hard that Chickenshit feels tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. She shrieks when Best Friend suddenly and without warning punches her in the eye. Somehow she manages to land a clumsy punch of her own that makes Best Friend squeal in pain and scrambles out from under her. She doubles over, winded, when Best Friend plants her fist in her kidney, but manages to elbow her in the face when she comes at her again.

Chickenshit manages to get back on her feet first (although she is swaying dangerously), as Best Friend is having a hard time in her sexy high-heeled boots whereas she's wearing practical Doc Martins. The sight is so hilarious that she can't help but laugh. She feels a savage sense of joy as she knocks Best Friend's feet out from under her and goes down again, cursing. The rush just feels so damn good. She may not be getting laid tonight, but she's getting something else that's just as good: beating the shit out of her too perfect, too beautiful best friend.

This amazing feeling lasts for a few more seconds, before she's tackled by what feels like a freight train and pinned to the ground.

"Put your hands behind your back! NOW!"

Oh god, she recognizes that voice. It's her brother. Chickenshit hisses in pain as her brother handcuffs her wrists together behind her back. He rolls off her and pulls her to her feet none too gently.

His handsome face is twisted in a mixture of annoyance and disgust. "Jesus, sis, seriously? I get a fucking call about a bar fight and you're involved?"

Chickenshit flushes, but finds herself unable to reply. The rush is gone and she's shaking from the adrenaline. She's too ashamed to look at her brother in the eyes and instead takes in the carnage that she helped create. The floor is glittering with shards of broken glass. Several tables and chairs are lying overturned, with their legs pointing upwards like those of dead animals and the overwhelming smell of spilled alcohol permeates the room. The glass in the trophy case on the opposite wall is shattered and several of its contents lie on the ground. If she squints really hard, she can see streaks of blood gleaming under the colorful light of the neon signs.

Her eyes search out the redhead and she finds him and his companion near the end of the bar, handcuffed and taking breathalyzers. The redhead catches her staring and sends her what seems to be an apologetic expression, as if he's sorry for how the night turned out.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Her brother snarls after he reads her her rights and pats her down. "How much did you have tonight?"

"A lot." Her words slur, and the combination of vodka, whiskey, and bourbon in her stomach is now starting to roil like the sea before a storm.

"I can see that," her brother snaps and has her take a breathalyzer. He looks at the results and shakes his head in disgust.

"Jesus, what is the matter with you? What do you think Mom and Dad are going to say when they find out?"

"They can go take a short walk off a cliff," is her reply and her brother flushes in anger and opens his mouth to retort, but he is interrupted by Best Friend's loud, drunken screeching.

"She's the one who assaulted me! Why the hell am I being arrested?"

The cop handling Best Friend looks aggravated already and it hasn't even been ten minutes. "M'am, from what I could see, you were also participating-"

"Fuck you!" Best Friend snaps her glare towards Chickenshit, a glare that used to scare her into submission. Not anymore. "And fuck you too!"

Chickenshit bristles and opens her mouth to fire back an insult of her own, but her brother says, "Don't you say a word," and starts marching her away, leaving the other cop to argue with the belligerent woman that she will be tazed if she does not calm down, and nobody wants that now, do we?

"She's always been trouble," her brother mutters under his breath.

Outside in the parking lot, the snow is falling in fast, stinging flurries and the temperature feels around 40 something Celsius, or even lower. Wearing only her hoodie and sweater (her brother has her jacket tucked under his arm), Chickenshit shivers.

As he leads her towards his patrol car, past the car where the redhead and his "friend" are currently being buckled in, her brother, without looking at her, says, "You do realize you may be fired from the bookstore if your boss finds out about this?"

Chickenshit hadn't thought about that. It's not unlikely considering what a complete bitch Mrs. Watson is, but she's held her position at the bookstore since she was eighteen, and as one of the few competent employees who actually gave a damn, she knows her boss isn't going to give her up that easily. She's been there for almost eight years, a timeline her parents never failed to keep track of ever since she dropped out of college.

"There's always the strip club," she mumbles.

"Don't be cute, sis. Do you really want to end up there like your so-called 'best friend?'" He doesn't even wait for her to speak. "Because when you wind up there, that's it. You're done."

"Don't be so dramatic. It's not a death sentence." But inwardly, she grimaces and thinks about all the horror stories Best Friend has told her, the way the women are treated by men like the recently deceased Sam Hess.

Her brother sighs in exasperation. "Sharon's right. You're impossible."

That one stings. Her brother constantly swallowing his fiance's poison is more than she can take. "Because Sharon knows me so well."

"She just wants what's best for you. We all do."

"Oh please," Chickenshit almost breaks out in laughter. "This is exactly why I want to leave. So I don't have to put up with this kind of bullshit from everybody."

They reach his car and her brother opens the back door harder than necessary. He explodes. "Then leave! You've been saying this since you were fucking eleven. You're twenty-five!"

Catching himself, he lowers his voice. "You're free to leave whenever you want. Nothing's holding you back here. God knows we've been waiting for it since you turned eighteen." His stern expression wavers briefly, and Chickenshit catches the sadness in his eyes before he hardens himself again. "I don't know what you think is holding you back, little sister, but whatever it is, you better learn to look ahead and live the way you want, because there's nothing worthwhile about getting into bar fights and hanging out with the same losers you smoked pot with back in high school."

Leave it to the fucking golden child to have a little speech like this ready on the spot. Chickenshit says nothing as her brother helps her slide into the backseat and buckles her up before he takes his place in the front passenger seat. A few minutes later, Best Friend is handcuffed and buckled in right next to her and her brother's partner is pulling them out of the parking lot.

The two women determinedly refuse to look at each other, instead staring out their windows at the snow and long, dark road. Chickenshit takes in her bloody lip and the bruise blossoming around her left eye, courtesy of Best Friend. She was going to have a lovely black eye come morning.

About ten more minutes pass until Chickenshit realizes that she hadn't read the last thing the redhead had written on their note. Thankfully, it was sticking out of her jeans pocket, so it wasn't very difficult to pull it out and unfold it on her lap. Though it's crumpled and has a small tear in it, she can make out his handwriting under the brief light that filters in every time they pass a streetlight.

Ian. His name's Ian.

Chickenshit folds the note back up and tries to put it back in her pocket, but it's practically impossible with the handcuffs. So she just wraps both her hands around the note and lets them fall in her lap. She thinks about her knuckles, bloody, and raw and aching.

A constellation of tears on your lashes

Burn everything you love, then burn the ashes

A/N:

1.) On a scale of "goddammit" to "fuck you," how annoying was it that I referred to Mr. Wrench and Mr. Numbers as "the redhead" and "the dark-haired man" over and over for the whole chapter? Yeah, I'm going with "fuck you, author" myself. xDD I hope nobody minds that I gave Mr. Wrench a name. I really don't want to have to refer to him by his script name throughout the whole story because that's just silly, even for Fargo. xD Besides, I highly doubt he or Mr. Numbers would give out their real names anyways.

2.) Also, don't be afraid to let me know if I'm leaving out any triggers that should be warning paragraph. As the show progresses, there may be more triggers and I will add accordingly, but I may forget or not even about a trigger unless it's pointed out to me.

3.) As for Chickenshit and Best Friend, I thought it would be hilarious to refer to them only by silly nicknames or titles seeing as the two hitmen are only known officially as Mr. Numbers and Mr. Wrench. I haven't decided yet if this is going to be a permanent thing for the whole story, but I thought it would be a hilarious way to introduce them. xDD

4.) On one last note: holy shit, Archive of Our Own is a pain in the ass to post to. I probably spent about ten minutes editing the damn thing after I posted it. I'm going to calm myself down by rewatching episode 5. The jail scene was just so great. Poor Lester. xDD