asherbaudelaire

[asherbaudelaire]

"Jesus Christ, if you're gonna' be a germaphobe at least use somethin' that actually works," Asher complains; soft spoken as always but no less cantankerous for the effort. Still, he holds his hands out and allows her to douse them in her prettily-packaged pseudoscience water. "Totally nuts, but whatever. Your house, your rules, not puttin' any of Gwyneth Paltrow's magic rocks up my ass though," he mutters, wrinkling his nose as he hurriedly dries them on his jeans. The stuff might smell refreshing to human senses, but to a werewolf it may as well be huffing battery acid. If it's the price of admission, it's worth the hassle; Asher hasn't seen his sister or his baby niece in months and there's not much he wouldn't endure for them. "Matty has a boyfriend now," he replies to Layne's jest, though his tone is far more serious, "Sorry. Grabbed a three minute prison-shower after work so I wouldn't be late gettin' over here. Guess I do kinda' look like shit." It's not something he normally apologizes for, but his big sister is different. "You don't. Look like shit, I mean. You look good. Happy." He's glad for it; relieved that if someone in their family got to escape the misery churn it was Layne, and Addie along with her. Part of him wonders whether she really made the right choice coming back. "You gettin' settled in alright?"

Closed: @asherbaudelaire Location: Layne's House

"Hands," she said looking at her brother in dismay before spaying his hand with some homeopathic cleanser. How he still managed to have dirt on him like he was five years old was beyond her. However, Layne would never turn her brother away. Despite her request that the men in her family refrain from over indulgence, she didn't want to shut them out completely either. It's why she invited her brother over for some light bites and mocktails. "I know I'm being that insane mother right now Ash, but it's viral season and I don't want to take a six month old to the doctors." So far they have been able to bypass any major concerns beyond a minor cold. Layne was hoping to keep it that way. "Anyways...you look like you've seen better days? You and Matty roaming the streets until 4 AM together?" she joked.

[asherbaudelaire]

Closed Starter for @opheliasflood Setting: Ophelia and Asher's Building

***

Asher hardly recognizes the face staring back at him. Clean shaven, hair carefully combed and tied back; even the dark circles beneath his eyes seem fainter now that he's actually sleeping at night. He reaches out to tap the mirror, half convinced he's fooling himself. Between the glow-up, the fresh scent of fancy bath products, and the finely curated outfit--shacket included--there's hardly a trace of his usual grunge. J.C.'s expertise has yielded quite the transformation; the vampire has solidly outdone himself. For the first time in a very long time, Asher is pretty sure nobody is going to mistake him for a bum tonight.

Trying his best to cling to that confidence, he heads for his front door and makes his way down the hall to his neighbor's. Their reservation isn't for half an hour and it's only a short walk from here. On second thought, maybe he's a couple minutes early. He hesitates, but then he figures that's better than late. Steeling his resolve with a deep breath, Asher knocks on Ophelia's door.

[asherbaudelaire]

His hands fall away, though there's hesitation to let the old man go. Roman looks as though he's liable to keel over, but truth be told it's not the only reason. Asher always had been the velcro-kid of the Baudelaire bunch; the baby of the family that mama couldn't bear to put down unless it was to let him cling to his older siblings. He'd learned at an early age the power of a warm embrace; the sense of security, calm, and trust one could bring. Maybe he and his dad have both needed that for far too long. "What we've been doin'," Ash replies softly, shaking his head. "I don't wanna' live like this anymore."

He follows his father into the trailer, leaning back against the counter of the cramped kitchen as Roman fixes them some beverages. It's not alcohol, and for the first time in a long time Asher is glad for it. He's trying, but he doesn't trust his resolve yet, nor his willpower to resist temptation if it's handed to him. Outright avoidance, for now, is the best he can do. "Dad, I...I know you were there. In the cornfield that night," he begins, accepting the glass only to set it down beside him. "Guessin' you saw some shit. I'm not gonna' ask you to tell me what it was if you don't wanna', but it wasn't just you. I saw some shit, too." He pushes his hair back out of his face, chewing lightly on his lower lip before continuing. "And it was awful, but it made me realize how fuckin' fragile life is. How easy it is for it to be gone in an instant. Do you know what the last thing I ever said to mom was?" Asher swallows thickly, blinking back the moisture that's begun to well in his eyes. "I said 'mom, I'm busy, I'll call you tomorrow.' She didn't have a fuckin' tomorrow. Maybe we don't, either. Whatever time we got left, I don't wanna' spend the rest of it in a drunken haze drownin' in my own misery anymore. And I don't wanna' keep pushin' away the people I got left. So...we need to figure out our shit, you and me. If you've ever meant it when you told me you wanted to fix what's broken between us, now's your chance."

The moment Asher started to pull away, Roman desperately wanted to keep his arms around the young man not wanting to let go.  However, he inched back as he made eye contact with his son.  “Do what?”  For Roman, all of this was out of character for his boy and he was not exactly sure what was going on right now.  Not that he was complaining, the physical affection was something he desperately craved.  Even now, just moments of parting he needed another fix, another hug from his kid.

Roman nodded as he walked inside with Asher, heading to the kitchen out of habit to fix two glasses of sweet tea for the two of them.  “What’s going on?”  He questioned softly as he handed a glass to Asher.  The older Baudelaire remained quiet, trying to gauge the situation.  Every time he thought things were going well, things were getting better between him and his children, he was proven wrong.  So, he was waiting for the bottom to drop as he stood there wondering what was about to  happen.

[asherbaudelaire]

"Their opinions are irrelevant, that's the whole point," Asher submits matter-of-factly, "It's a personal, first-hand experience kinda' thing. My family's a shitshow, that's just how it is. I might not like it, but I'm under no illusion otherwise." He doesn't know Maya well enough to say with any certainty that her own sense of self awareness is any more or less keen than his own, but surely she must know herself better than the authority figures in her life who had clearly failed her.

He taps a fingertip on the side of his mug as he considers Maya's logic; trying to see the situation from the vantage point suggesting that the choice to be a decent person in one regard somehow absolves him of the reality of what he actually is. Monsters can do good things, but that doesn't make them human. Asher doesn't voice as much aloud; as argumentative as he can be at times, he just doesn't have it in him this morning. Not where this topic is concerned. Maya's sudden laughter takes him a little by surprise--he'd only asked what had seemed like a fairly direct question--but her response comes as less of one. A witch. "Oh," Asher replies with a quiet nod. He's not put off by the revelation; to the contrary, most of his experiences with magic users can be summed up and packaged in the close, near familial relationship he has with his 'uncle' Corey. It's because of that singular bias, perhaps, that Asher holds a higher regard for witches than some would say is strictly wise. "So you're sayin' that's not why you moved to Greywood?"

She couldn't argue with him there. It wasn't like Roman didn't annoy her too and he wasn't even her family. Besides, her only memories of having a family were watercolored at best. She hardly had any expertise in the matter. "Well," Maya said with a shrug, "I just don't want my questionable decisions to cause problems."

She shrugged again when Asher told her that what people said about her wasn't her fault. She didn't believe him. After all, he didn't know her. They had met last night and it seemed his memory of it was as fuzzy as hers. "But they're right about you?" she asked, knowing better than to argue the point. People, kind people at least didn't let you stand by that kind of claim. Instead, she pointed out the obvious. If people were wrong about her, then they could very well be wrong about his family.

She shook her head when he nodded in her direction. As the waitress left, Maya raised an eyebrow at his words. She knew about monsters. All her life she had been familiar with monsters. Which made her certain that he wasn't one. "A whole monster wouldn't have called to make sure he didn't turn a stranger last night, so unless you went and stole a bunch of candy from babies after it's not a perk of that," she replied then took another sip of her coffee. Maya laughed out loud, nearly spraying coffee across the table when he asked her what her deal was. Her deal was a lot of things. She supposed that being a witch was part of that deal, especially considering the last year. Still when asked what her issues were she didn't usually list her magic among them. Her magic was a gift. It was other people's reactions to her magic that were the problem. "I'm a witch, but I wouldn't refer to it as my deal. It's actually one of the few things that's never made the headlines of my issues," she replied.

[asherbaudelaire]

And just like that, the weight of the world seems to fall away from Matthew's shoulders. His brother is beaming--as he always is whenever J.C. is around, or spoken about--and Asher doesn't even need Fig's perceptive omniscience to tell him why that is. The answer is clear as day, written in the rare, genuine smile across Matt's face. It's the look a man wears when he's well and truly smitten.

"You deserve it, man," Asher tells him, for once no edge of sarcasm or even their usual sibling teasing in his voice. "I'm happy for you." It's been a long time coming, Matt finding some semblance of joy; some hope for a future bright enough to shine through the shadows that have darkened him these past decades. It's ironic that the person who's helped him to find such lightness is a vampire. He takes another long, thoughtful swig from the paper coffee cup, lowering it to bestow upon J.C. the highest praise Asher ever offers to anybody. "Mom woulda' liked him."

Matthew can't help the smile now gracing his features as the conversation turned more toward Jean-Claude, his boyfriend. Boyfriend. Calling the other man thus still felt surreal for the human who had never really had a genuine stable relationship. His last 'relationship' had been a clandestine affair between himself and a married man so calling themselves in that situation in a relationship or boyfriends had been entirely uncalled for. Everything else were situationships at best, one night stands or casual occasional hook ups at most. Matthew didn't date, it simply wasn't something he'd done, wasn't something he thought himself very capable of because what was the point in getting close to someone when he already had an exit planned. It was just going to be one more person to say goodbye to. So to say that things were serious between Matthew and Jean-Claude was accurate. It made the human smile, felt bashful and shrug his shoulders with a nonchalant air as he mumbled into his coffee, "Yeah, I guess you can say that. He... makes me happy," and for Matthew, being happy was good thing he didn't often experience. "It feels... nice, being with him." Being with someone who wanted him. Wanting and being wanted.

[asherbaudelaire]

He'd be content to stand there and hold her until dawn--longer if she'd let him--but Asher isn't foolish enough to believe the moment will be anything more than fleeting. With Ophelia they never are. Still, for all that it is, he soaks it in, relishing the sensations both physical and emotional that wash over him. It all hits differently, now. He knows what it feels like to believe these moments are lost forever, and Lord, he never wants to feel that again. What happened was a nightmare, but for him, it has also been a wake-up call.

There's a stiff breeze and even through the layers of his thick hoodie and werewolf body heat Asher feels the chill. Ophelia shivers against his chest and he pulls her even tighter for an instant...but when it passes he reluctantly loosens the embrace and allows her to put some space between them. It strikes him just then how very much he doesn't want to let her go.

"Yeah," he replies before he's even fully processed what she's asking him. Whatever it is, he's sure he wants it. Asher confirms once more with a nod, "I'd like that."

his arms are much larger than her, dwarfing ophelia in their embrace who stays almost clinged to asher in a desperate way, as if she could keep the pieces of him that still lingered within the frame from falling out. the scruff on the crown of her head tickles softly, the blonde swallowing down a great wave of emotion that threatens to spill over her weak defenses as his quiet voice says you're really important to me. something she cannot understand, nor fathom a reason why. the bond made through these small moments of bliss amongst the storm of shit was perhaps stronger than ophelia had ever realised, it only hitting her in the face of losing it completely.

she doesn't budge for a while, making sure that asher really is here, hands moving to pat his back and sides occasionally, body solid, voice tired. the chill of the night air suddenly catches the blonde off guard, a shiver running through her, the urge to get closer to warmth there - nothing more toasty than a werewolf, after all. slowly, her embrace slackens, pulling away from her neighbour and friend.

"do...do you want to come round?" ophelia asks him, voice low. "i won't sleep. we can watch scary movie or something. or not, whatever you wanted," she could tell him back, that he's important to her to but - where would that lead? to something ophelia isn't sure about opening just yet. the offer clearly means, however, that she wants to keep his company for the rest of the day, if he'll let her.

[asherbaudelaire]

"Sure..." Asher drawls, clearly not buying the notion that whatever had preceded Maya and Roman's initial tryst had been entirely one-sided. He finds himself wishing he had a couple shots of something strong to dump into his mug. His gaze settles upon the phone, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips. "I'm gonna' be mad at him one way or another, and it's got nothin' to do with you," Ash assures her, reaching again for the unspiked coffee anyhow. He peers over the rim of his mug at her as she proceeds to recite a list of people in her life who should, by all rights, have been offering her words of affirmation. Not that. It reads like standard baggage, but the little voice dancing around in his head--the one that seems to know more than it should--whispers the truth: it's deeper than that. "Fuck 'em," Asher decrees after a moment of consideration. "It's their shortcoming, not yours." The waitress chooses that inopportune instant to reappear at the tableside in response to Maya's summoning, and Asher finds the grace in himself to look a little bit chastened. He orders himself a breakfast burrito, and glances across the table in Maya's direction with a questioning quirk of his eyebrow; one last wordless offer to buy her breakfast if she wants to add onto the order. When they're alone again, he waves off her concern with a halfhearted shrug, "It'll pass when I get some food in my belly. Perks of bein' a whole monster, I guess." The acerbic edge to his tone leaves no confusion as to how he feels about the label. After so many months of careful secrecy it's still strange speaking openly with someone about it. "So what's your deal? You're not like me," he points out the window at the sunny morning sky, "--And you're obviously not a vampire. Normal people don't generally choose Greywood. So what is it?"

"I hit on him," Maya replied. She hadn't quite known that Roman was that old. She knew that he was old enough to be her dad. It wasn't healthy. There was something wrong with her. She knew that. "I know he's not my dad and it's probably all kinds of complicated. But if you're going to be mad at him, it doesn't need to be on my behalf," she added. She didn't want to put her nose somewhere where it didn't belong and she could understand if Asher didn't like Roman all that much, judging by the face he had made at seeing Roman calling. But her behavior was her own fault, not Roman's.

At his question, she shrugged. Maya took another sip of her coffee before responding. "Take your pick. Teachers, friends, friends' parents, foster parents, couple of fuck buddies," she said, rattling off the list with the kind of casual nonchalance that proved its authenticity. As she spoke, Maya turned and flagged down the waitress. A smile played across her lips, doing it with the ease of someone who worked in food service. She turned back to Asher. "You sure you're alright?," she asked, "You look a little green."

[asherbaudelaire]

When he was a small child, his father had seemed larger than life; big and tall and stalwart like the statues of the soldiers at the town veterans memorial. Now, though, the man crushed against his chest feels as though he might blow over in a stiff wind; Roman's broad shoulders don't have the meat on them that they used to, ill-fitting clothes hiding a leaner frame than he'd sported in his youth. Asher is older now than his dad had been the last time they'd hugged one another like this, and it's a realization that hits him like a punch to the gut. They've wasted so much time. He opens his mouth to say something, but he only gasps in a deep breath, needing another moment to collect himself before trying again. Reluctantly, Asher pulls away, hands still on Roman's shoulders to hold him at arm's length as he shakes his head and manages to explain himself. "I don't wanna' do this anymore, dad," he admits softly. "Life's too fuckin' short." Indeed, the nightmarish fiasco in the cornfield and his recent brush with mortality have put a great deal of things into perspective for him. "Can we go inside? I've got some things I need to say."

An uneasy feeling spread across Roman, knowing his son was on the other side of the door.  “Calm down,” he groaned as he stood up and felt that creak in his back causing his body to stiffen.  It often took a moment of Roman stretching out and moving for the achiness in his joints subsided.  Once he opened the door, he saw a distraught young man and before he could say something he felt his son’s arms wrap around him.  No amount of words could possibly describe the depths of emotions coming from Roman.  For decades, he was denied any kind of physical affection from his sons and suddenly there was a floodgate being unleashed as he tightened his own arms around his son’s frame and held him tightly…tighter than he should have, but he couldn’t let go.

“Hey,” he softly said as his hand eased up towards the back of Asher’s head in a comforting manner.  “What’s going on?  What’s wrong?”  Even Roman knew if Asher was hugging him, there was something going on.  Something is bothering the young man.  “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”  It was as if all his paternal instincts kicked back into overdrive and Asher was that five year old kid playing tee ball and getting upset after he missed hitting the ball, that only his father could comfort him in that moment.

[asherbaudelaire]

Asher has spent enough time here at his uncle's veterinary office throughout the years that he knows the routine, carefully passing through doorways in such a manner as to keep the cattery's residents safely tucked on their side. It's easier these days than it used to be; most of the animals here tend to give him plenty of space now. They know damned well what he is even if Corey doesn't.

He follows the older man through the familiar halls and into the staff's kitchen area, sinking down into his preferred seat at the table. None of the Boudelaire kids are strangers to this particular kitchen table; it's a safe space in a world that hasn't always felt that way. "Nah, I don't need none of that fancy swill, Uncle Corey." Asher's coffee preferences could not be further from his big brother Matt's. He likes the cheap stuff; brewed by the pot-full, black, piping hot, poured hastily into a thermos on his way out the door to keep him warm when he's working outside on a chilly morning. "Okay, this's gonna' sound stupid as shit. I wanted to ask you what kinda' medical resources and protocols are out there for supernatural creatures...y'know, like, do vampires have to go to special dentists? Do werewolves see a veterinarian for rabies shots? How's all that work?"

A wide grin stretched Corey’s lips when Asher said that he had time for a cup of coffee. “Perfect!” He exclaimed, moving to exit the cat playroom after Asher. He let Asher through with a practiced technique that left no room for any of the cats to slip away. Most were either indifferent or too busy inspecting the new item in the room anyway. “Oh yeah? What are they about?” Naturally Corey didn’t mind at all, just hoping he would be able to help.

He guided Ash back to the front of the clinic and to the staff kitchen, where he busied himself with brewing tea for himself and coffee for the younger man. “Oh we got a new espresso machine, want to try?” He offered, pointing at what Corey considered a very futuristic-looking machine sitting on the kitchen counter. There was a kitchen table in there as well, currently unoccupied as it was yet too early for lunch break, so most of the clinic and shelter’s staff was out there, working.

[asherbaudelaire]

He lets his gaze linger on the menu, though in truth it's difficult to focus on the items listed or their descriptions. Particularly not when Maya's voice demands his attention once again; her words giving him enough pause that he lets the laminated paper drop onto the tabletop and just looks at her for a moment. "I'm glad you're all good, but it's still not okay. He's pushin' sixty; he shouldn't be prowling for women your age. Ain't right." Roman's life choices are fucked up in a lot of ways that Asher would be an outright hypocrite to judge him for, but this isn't one of them.

His head is still throbbing, and Asher wishes he'd thought to swallow half a bottle of Advil before rushing out the door to meet Maya at the restaurant. Especially in light of this conversation. "Who'd say that about you?" He asks, oddly serious considering the mutually self-effacing nature of the comment in question. Their waitress stops by only long enough to refill their mugs, and vanishes before Asher can manage to request any food. He pulls a face about it, resolved to catch her on the next pass.

Maya refused to let herself feel embarrassed about her actions. She knew who she was. Besides, it wasn't as if she had expectations of Roman that were going to get her hurt. She took a sip of her coffee and waited for him to respond. He had either the decency or the smarts to apologize. It would be easy when he claimed that Roman's personal business was his problem to reassure him that she wasn't sleeping with the man in question any longer. Or even to write off the whole thing as a mistake. She found herself, unable to let the point entirely go. "Well, business is fine. I'm clean, I didn't get knocked up and it's not, like, I'm sitting at home pining over him. Clearly," she said.

She laughed when Asher tried to inform her that the Baudelaires weren't worth the trouble. She said, "If I had a nickel for every time someone said that about me." It had been said to her enough times that Maya had mostly internalized it. Drinking from her coffee mug again, she watched as he picked up a menu. Her gaze was sharp and bounced around the restaurant. In the back of her mind, she had counted three escape routes already. It was always a running calculation in her head. "No, I'm alright," she said with a shake of her head.

[asherbaudelaire]

Asher very much does not like to think about the possibilities pertaining to that awful night--for all that did go horribly wrong, there's a dark realization in everyone's minds that it surely could have been even worse--and when Ophelia mentions her niece, Norma, he knows that's been on her mind, too. What happened was traumatic, in so many ways, but they have their lives. Maybe a touch of PTSD to carry with them for the next several decades. If Norma is lucky, perhaps she'll forget all about it as she grows up, or dismiss what happened as some demented nightmare she'd only convinced herself was real the way children so often do.

He's about to say as much, when the sight that meets his peripheral steals the words right off his tongue. "Jesus Christ, Ophelia! What are you--??" Asher exclaims, somewhere between shock and panic as he watches his neighbor hoist herself onto the thin balcony railing and close the gap between their spaces in what could only be considered a solidly unsafe manner. His instinct is to rush over; to reach out and be the tether that will catch her if she slips. She makes it look easy, and is quick enough that he's barely made it up onto his feet by the time hers are firmly planted on his balcony.

And then she's in his arms. Or rather, he's in hers, insomuch as her spindly limbs are even capable of encircling his much bulkier frame. Of all the ways Asher had worried himself sick over Ophelia's reaction to learning the secrets he's been keeping, this one certainly hadn't made it onto the list. She was worried. About him. He hesitates a moment, half afraid she'll spook with any sudden movement, before slowly shifting to wrap his arms around her shoulders and return the embrace. "I'm glad she's okay," he murmurs quietly, before letting his face tip forward to rest his cheek atop Ophelia's head. Long, bleach-blonde strands catch against his stubble as he admits yet another thing to her, "I'm glad you're okay. You...You're really important to me, Ophelia."

her eyes are still looking over, even if now asher is shrouded in darkness, outline barely visible against the darkness of the morning as he confirms what she'd asked. that was him, which meant - he was a werewolf. ophelia didn't really know any, nor how they worked...apart from the full moon turning them into huge-dogs kind of thing. asher had turned without that, though, so...ophelia shook her head. why was she focusing on the intricacies? ask him later, if you're so nosey.

"you saved my niece," and me went unsaid. the blonde didn't know where the two of them would be now if it hadn't had been for him. matthew couldn't have carried the two of them for much further...swallowed up by the corn, perhaps? destined to forever wonder around. his affliction did little to deter her from moving, scrabbling even, hooking one long leg around the edge of her own balcony to stand on the outside of the railings. good thing ophelia was sober, grabbing onto the wrought iron bars of asher's own balcony and hitching herself over with ease.

finally, the two were on the same side, no longer parted by the short distance between them, and soon no distance at all. it had been such an imperative need, the moment it clicked, to drag asher to her and hold onto him tightly in what some might call a hug - or a crush, as much as that could be with her waifish form. ophelia held onto him fiercely, trying to convey her gratitude, her relief all through one easy gesture. he smelt of sweat, and damp earth, cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. "i was so worried about you," it comes out, finally, voice choked. "thankyou. thankyou for saving norma,"

[asherbaudelaire]

Asher is sputtering and gasping between his sobs, half choking on his own vomit as he vacillates from one extreme to the other; trying to hold himself together and resist the chemically induced urge to close his eyes and let it all float away. A few moments ago he had been ready to surrender, but now he's lost his resolve. Matt is here. My brother is here. Alive, in the flesh, a whole man and not the eviscerated corpse that Asher can still envision clear as day. He doesn't know how to parse it, and frankly he's too fucked up to try.

He hears Matt's voice, vaguely aware on some level that his brother is speaking to someone else. It's easier to focus on the tone--fear, worry, sadness--and maybe if he wasn't sprawled in a puddle of vomit and broken glass on his bathroom floor in a bathrobe he would have been taken aback by how truly awful it feels to put someone he loves through something like this. "I saw what I did, Matty, I saw..." His words trail off. In fact, Asher isn't entirely certain what he saw, only that it was an experience in all the worst ways. He can still taste his brother's blood on his tongue, and yet he's staring at the other man right now. Maybe he's lost his fucking mind. Was what he saw a dream? Is this? Just as he's begun to let uncertainty toss him into that downward spiral again, Matt's voice yanks him back into reality. His glazed eyes try desperately to fix upon his brother's. "...It's you and me," he echoes back, just like he used to when they were little boys. His consciousness is fading, and as shivers begin to rack his body his head falls forward to rest on his brother's shoulder.

Everything is spinning, whirling out of control, and when Asher puts his hand down on the floor to steady himself he only manages to slice his palm on a piece of the broken mirror. There are enough drugs flowing through his system to numb the pain; it's as if he doesn't even feel it. Nor does the injury stick around for very long--lycanthropic constitutional properties are a marvel to behold even under duress--the shallow gash seeming to close on it's own in only a few moments. Still all but entirely incoherent and on the verge of unconsciousness, he squeezes his hand closed and manages to murmur "Don't touch it, you'll get infected..."

Vomit spews, it seeps disgustingly into his jeans and against the tiled floor, "Good, that's good, you're going to be okay," he pats his brother's shoulder, rubs his back and chest, somehow trying to contain his brother and keep him from disappearing before his eyes. His brother's frantic words resonate in his head.

I killed all those people. I killed you.

What had happened to his brother to make him think these things? But there was still no time to think about it. They hadn't escaped the danger yet and with vomit covering his fingers, Matthew pulls his cell phone from his pocket and dials with one hand the number for the emergency line. "I need an ambulance, paramedics. My brother took --" he doesn't know, didn't see the bottles, can't focus on one long enough to know what it says, "--He's OD'd." Saying it out loud almost breaks him down, emotions cracks over his features, the sturdy wall of his calm facade threatens to crumble entirely as his head drops. The voice on the other line is speaking to him but he can't hear it, "Please send someone." He feels like the tiled floor is about to open up and swallow them both, the room threatens to spin out of orbit, Matthew's grip on his brother tightens as he regains his resolve, patches up the holes of the crumbling facade and continues on. He can't succumb to panic yet. He gives the address and apartment number to the person on the line, all that's left now is to wait and as he waits the pieces of the shattered speech of his brother start finding their places in the puzzle of what happened.

He hadn't seen his brother in the maze, hadn't thought he'd seen him in the maze but that didn't mean he wasn't there. Matthew cups his brother's face with both of his hands, trying to force their eyes to meet, "Hey. You still with me? I got you. You didn't kill anyone. No one is dead. I'm not dead. I'm here with you. It's you and me, brother." Mirrored words to ones shared when they were younger, over skinned knees and grief that felt like the end of the world.

[asherbaudelaire]

Her familiar scent is calming after so much upheaval in the days since the Halloween catastrophe, and with his cigarette snuffed out it's easier to focus on just that. Even without the addition of some cloying perfume or fragranced beauty product, it is inextricably Ophelia. Asher lets himself try and focus on that--the nuances of the woman stripped bare instead of the facade she so often hides behind--and hopes that it will ground his nerves as they navigate the unavoidable conversation they are hurtling toward now.

She speaks to him, his name falling from her lips almost like she's not certain he's the same dirtbag neighbor she is accustomed to seeing out on the adjacent balcony at ungodly hours of the morning. He steels himself for what he's feared all along--that she will look at him in abject horror; turn, run, never speak to him again--and his throat tightens when she asks the question. Part of him wonders if she has already realized how close she's been to the answer for some time now; indeed, when was the last time he'd joined her for balcony-hour on the night of a full moon? And yet, she wants to hear him say it, and he owes her that much at least. Asher swallows thickly, nodding, before he manages the words that might very well doom their friendship. "--Yeah. It was," he confesses, fists clenched so tightly that his nails dig into his palms. "That was me in the maze. I followed your scent, that's how I found you, Norma, and Matt." For all the good it did.

it wasn't an accident. oh, so it had been purposeful then. it felt like a small part of her was suddenly crumbled up like a piece of paper and chucked into a bin. why? ophelia didn't know, it was just how it felt. sometimes, these things didn't have reasons for being, it just was. her lips were sealed while asher talked, eyes straining against the dark of the morning to make him out, barely illuminated by the end of his cigarette. the vision had been horrific, he had seemingly ripped to shreds the people he cared about. including you. it was there, glossed over somewhat, that the two of them did care for the other. ophelia had felt it, that day he took her up to the house in the hills but...to hear it was different entirely. her mouth opened, to say something but shut immediately at the blue. the glow of it, something she had rarely seen before.

asher tried to kill himself to protect everyone because he thinks he's a monster. he's a - werewolf. the world around her falls silent, thoughts racing back to the night she tried so hard to hide from. the great wolf, how it let you ride on its back. do you remember how it whined? how easily it allowed you to stroke its fur and bid it thankyou?

"asher," the blonde leans against the balcony, trying to get a good look at his face, at those haunting blue eyes. he looks like a ghost, she wants to pull him back to reality. "that was you, wasn't it? in the maze? you let me and norma on your back?" she needs to hear it from him, as if it's the final piece in a puzzle. a yes that will make everything fall into place.

[asherbaudelaire]

The scent of cooking spices is heavy on the air when Asher's truck rolls up the long driveway, and he doesn't need to wonder why. It was never a skill he'd bothered to learn from his father in his younger days, back when the old man had still been around, but he remembers what their family kitchen used to smell like when dad was on dinner duty. Those old childhood memories are a garbled mess of mama's apron strings, brotherly bonds forged in the fires of a household that felt more like a minefield at times, and bitterness toward the stranger they'd called father that grew deeper with every tear their mother shed. Most days it's easier to remember the bad times, but there were good times, too. And maybe it would do them all some good to try and find them again.

Gravel crunches under his boots as he makes his way up onto the front porch; his father's mutt already barking at the door well before it swings open. Roman looks like shit, and for once Asher declines to point it out to him. As a matter of fact, he looks like shit, too, and it's probably the closest thing to family resemblance that the two of them will ever achieve. Asher just stares at his father's gaunt, tired face for a moment; until he feels the uncomfortable prick of stinging heat behind his blue eyes. And then, without a word, he takes a step forward and wraps his arms around the old man. It's probably been more than twenty years since he hugged his father, but if he means to fix things then they've got to start somewhere.

WHO: @asherbaudelaire LOCATION: Roman's Trailer

Asher wanted to see him, some part of Roman dreaded their meeting assuming his son wanted to meet in person to give devastating news. On edge, about the meeting that would soon transpire in a few hours Roman started tidying up the place.  The trailer actually was not as bad as it has been in the past, he was actively trying to maintain it.  Not for himself, but for Dario who spent every other weekend at his place.  If it weren’t the youngest Baudelaire, Roman probably would have allowed everything to fall apart and live in complete squalor.  

Even though Asher said no, he didn’t need to fix anything.  Roman decided it wouldn’t hurt to have something ready for his son’s arrival just on the small chance his son wanted to spend time with him.  And there it was, the sliver of hope the wolf held onto even when he convinced himself his children wanted nothing to do with him.  The scent of seasonings filled the small kitchen as he decided to make some homemade okra soup, his momma’s recipe.  One day, he hoped to pass down these recipes to his children but they didn’t show any interest in their southern heritage.

While the soup simmered on the stovetop, Roman settled down in his usual recliner and Seymour jumped up into his lap as they began watching television until they both heard something outside, most likely Asher.  Seymour quickly went to the door, began barking and Roman came up from behind and opened the door to see his son.

“Hey Nugget,” he said softly using his son’s nickname that he bestowed upon him when he was just a baby.  “Um, I got some okra soup on the stove if you’re hungry.  Sweet tea and colas in the fridge,” he offered as he opened the door wider for his son to come inside.

[asherbaudelaire]

The clamoring din of the busy restaurant around them seems to have softened; or perhaps he's only so focused on the very unexpected conversation taking place at this table that he has an easier time blocking it all out. As if to taunt them both, Asher's phone buzzes again; Roman's face popping up on the screen. She snaps back at him and when the words sink in it's hard to argue the point. It's not his business who a woman he's met literally twice now chooses to involve herself with, and Asher was raised to know better, but this revelation has gotten under his skin and it has very little to do with Maya. "I'm sorry," he concedes after a moment, "Your personal life's not my business, you're right. His is, though." Roman is old enough to be this woman's father--Hell, her grandfather--and it comes as less of a shock than it really should that the old man had not let that fact stop him. "Not for nothin', but swearin' off Baudelaire's would probably be a wise move. We're really not worth the trouble." Asher reaches for one of the menus on the end of the table, "You want an omelet or somethin'?"

She got the feeling he wasn't listening anymore. But he had had a long night and seemed a bit more affected by last night than she was. She wasn't saying anything that important anyway. It was fine if he drifted off a little. At least she thought it was fine.

Maya blinked in surprise at his question. She had never claimed to be tactful, but that was a bit much even for her. "Wow, okay, kind of not your business," she replied almost instinctively. It wasn't his business. She could fuck anyone she wanted, including his dad. Maya was also very aware that people made assumptions when you said things like that. Mind your own business meant yes. Besides, she was not a liar. "I have fucked your dad," Maya added, "Although, again deeply not your business who I fuck unless its you."

[asherbaudelaire]

'Well', he hears her say, and if he hadn't heard it in her tone he would sure as shit have seen it in the shadow that falls across her expression. The little voice in the back of his head hums accusatorily, and though Asher would like nothing better than to ignore it for once, he just can't find it in himself to let this go. His brows furrow, and he studies her features more closely; really looking at her for perhaps the first time. She's alluring in a careless, understated way; a burnout with a pretty face and a penchant for cheap drinks and easy entertainment. The kind of girl with a past she isn't keen on talking about who isn't looking for strings or rings. Just Roman's type.

The rest of their conversation falls to the wayside, all but forgotten in the face of the budding realization that's slowly beginning to unfold in his mind. Asher has never really been known for his tact, but when he rests a forearm on the table and tilts his head to pose the question to Maya, it is perhaps bereft of tact entirely. "--Are you fuckin' my dad?"

"Well..." Maya said, unintentionally pulling a face. Roman did have her number. He didn't text her often though. She was also certain that the kinds of texts she got from him were very different than the ones Asher did. She did not expand on the word she had said though.

That was part of what made it rough as she understood it, the lack of choice that so often was a part of becoming a werewolf. "Not on the agenda," Maya replied with a nod. She took another sip of coffee as Asher explained that he had spoken to Ryden already. She didn't blame him for not wanting to join the pack. She herself had never considered joining a coven after being rejected by her parents' after they were gone. But Maya also wouldn't blame him if he changed his mind later. She nodded, "Yeah, we're friends." She cracked a smile, "Although, that's not why I say he's a good guy. "

She was glad to see him relax at her reassurance. He didn't need to worry about her. Even if she had been turned, it would be her own fault for putting herself in the situation. She had to laugh at his words. A crooked smile graced her expression and she kept her tone easy and joking. "Yeah, lucky for you," she replied, lifting her mug slightly before bringing it to her lips.

[asherbaudelaire]

He doesn't bother with any more excuses, though it feels like that's all anything else he could possibly say would be at this point. Some are more valid than others, perhaps, but the crux of the matter is that he hadn't reached out because he was ashamed. Is ashamed. The little orange glow on the end of his cigarette brightens as he sucks in a rush of air, letting his eyes drift skyward for a moment before he allows it all to slip free.

"It wasn't an accident, Ophelia." Asher lets the confession linger in the air, shifting to find a less intensely uncomfortable position where he is seated on the decking of his balcony. "You saw things that night, yeah? At the stone circle?" It's not really a question; he already knows the answer even if he can't begin to guess the details of what her own personal Hell might have looked like. "It felt so real. I saw myself--the worst part of myself--maulin' the life outta' everybody I care about. My brother, my dad...You." Taking one last drag from the cigarette, he pulls it from his lips and extinguishes the remnants on the deck beside him. Rolled up inside the dark admission is yet a deeper one; Ophelia hadn't known Asher was there at the stones that night. "I thought it was real...I could feel it, taste it. My head was tellin' me it happened. That's why I did it; so I wouldn't hurt anybody else." Asher knows there's one last critical piece of information that he hasn't worked up the courage to put into words. He isn't sure if he can muster it even now. "I'm sorry," he says again, blue eyes that shine unnaturally in the moon's glow fixed on hers, "For not tellin' you what I am."

usually, ophelia appears on the balcony straight from work, hair still straight and makeup still giving her skin an airbrushed finish yet, this may be the only time she is without her usual shields and armament. concealer cannot hide the bags under her eyes, lipstick hiding away how chapped her lips look, foundation giving her skin life. she hears his apology and says nothing back, looking down at her fingers and picking at the edges of them in an anxious manner. the two are so rarely honest with the other, only picking up on things through subtext, what is either not said or simply implied. "don't bullshit me with your phone. i live next door," ophelia motions to the space between their balconies, as if someone could've given a message. if he wanted you to know, you would, a voice in her head says bitterly, asher isn't obligated to tell or explain anything to you. who are you, ophelia, apart from the neighbor?

her eyes flicker over. he still looks like shit, ophelia thinks he still should be in hospital but, knows how terrible those places are. she always discharged early to. a mouth opens, closes - a frown. "what?" the blonde sounds confused. "didn't tell me what? i knew you used, i do to for christs sake i...i wish you'd let me know. if you were struggling, i'd have..." done what? fucked him all better? ophelia doesn't have the answer. she feels as if something else is going on, and isn't sure what.