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[c0nnectdots]

restless energy exists under his skin. constant need to get his hands on something— it's kept him out of most trouble last few years. quelled the electricity making his hair stand on edges ; the pins and needles at bay. couldn't stumble into bad habits, lose the plot if they had something to do. ironically, had considered looking into mechanics before the tattooing gig. only problem with cars were the lifeless shells. couldn't tell what the hell was wrong with an expressionless husk. it lacked a form of art ; detailing couldn't even compete. if damon's fixed his absolute joke of a ninety's era honda, surely he could do something. " well, if you don't know and i don't know what the hell is wrong with it ... who's to say it isn't an easy fix? " its genuine in the way it's stressed, fingers fiddling with an edge silver ring circling his finger. palms itch at the thought. " least i could do, yeah? gives me shit to do, you somethin' less to worry about. hopefully. i ain't a mechanic, but ... i like to keep my knowledge expanding. " snorts at that. " you know me. can't stop keeping myself busy. just keep it in mind, yeah? " a clap of their hands. " now, with the damon business spiel out the way ... what you want? i'll cover it. no, nope nothin' about handouts or any of that shit. i asked you if you were free to chill. "

the    air    in    places    like    redcreek    carried    a    sweetness    that    clung    to    her    skin    like    sap,    tacky    with    memories    she'd    rather    forget    —-   memories    of    a    town    smaller    than    this    one,    trapped    between    cornfields    and    steeples,    drenched    in    kindness    so    artificial    you    felt    like    you    were    suffocating. it’s    why    she    tries    to    stay    in    the    margins,    on    the    side ;    here,    but    not    really,    easily    forgettable.    a    person    you    jot    down    in    the    crevices    of    your    memory    and    then    discard.    but    now    she needs    help.    fucking    can’t    stand    that    she    does,    but    requires    it    nonetheless.    without    a    means    of     transportation    she’s     truly stuck,    one    purgatory    traded for    another. it's that fact that forces her to act    like    words    have    threaded    through    her    suspicion,    like    saccharinity    in    eyes    and    a charm she almost wants to fall for    doesn’t    remind    her how    she's learned generosity doesn't always mean goodness    —-    instead how one usually meant the absence of the other.    " wish    i    knew.    every    time    i    try    to    gain    any    type    of    speed    the    check    engine    light    comes    on    and    he    quits. " fingers drum over the rusted metal, gaze catching theirs. " you sure you want another project? "

[c0nnectdots]

eyes flicker from their phone, brows furrowing a bit. " scary and spooky makes me think of xenomorph or the freak from 'it'. if you were ghost face, i'll be devastated i didn't get to reenact the ... " the hand grasping their phone and the free one rise to their cheeks, voice pitched a bit. " NO, don't kill me mr. ghostface! i wanna be in the sequel ... " laughs almost instantly at themselves, batting the air in savannah's direction with his phone. maybe that's a bit too on the nose, crude and basic with the small town gossip stereotype. oh well, not like it didn't go through everyone elses mind. its easier to talk about this than their fucking embarrassment. wound buried beneath its mountain of salt. sugar poured into on top. a little salty, a little sweet. no, it's something bitter— " i'm yammering. lay it on me. maybe i'll spout some ideas for you next year. long as a meteor doesn't hit, add some extraterrestrial spooky shit to this creek. "

Savannah needed some time to kill before the band's set and thankfully, her initiating the conversation wasn't totally shut off. She wasn't always good at starting them, liquid courage helping her open up a bit more though.

"Yeah, I heard about it all. Small town, gossip tends to spread like wildfire," she spoke. Not trying to pour any salts in potential wounds by bringing up the events of Halloween, she tries her best at pivoting the topic a bit. "No, I wasn't really going as basic this year," she joked with Damon. "You're too cold on the guess. Think something more scary and spooky. Do I strike you as the princess type?"

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water under the bridge had a tendency to get too high, threat of flooding often ignored. damon likes to overlook warnings ; pass through waist-heigh water and count the seconds until they're engulfed. however, when it came to selin ... there's a certain twist in their gut. the severity didn't merit groveling, but fuck the consequences of actions can make a paper cut look fatal. sniffs, a borderline laugh, at her. rising waters of damon's own making alone ; selin's more of a breeze. disturbing the surface and bringing the ripples. the leaves falling to rest on top without making a sound— and all that poetic bullshit they'd never say aloud. shoulders droop from tension with invisible cord snapping with the little bump. the smoke coils in his uncharacteristic silence, maybe signifying that relief he feels. its easy to slip back into a factory setting, let the smile curve against his mouth and hand rest against knee. " got to at least give me my few moments of actually being serious, sel. " this comes with an arm coiling around her shoulders, tugging her towards his side with an air of comfortability. their nasty little addiction and its burn, thankfully in his eyes, kept away from wafting towards selin's face. fingers wiggle next to her face.

" buuuut! you get tied up in any of my shit again, break my pinkie. i'd deserve it. you'd better promise me that. " pointer finger finds its target: her cheek. presses there in a longer than necessary poke. keeps the smile on his face that she'd affected him with. which selin affects him in a lot of ways. wouldn't have stuck around otherwise. she's genuine, at least he thinks so, in a way he hadn't found himself able to be. admirable, really. the air she brings ; spring little breeze. thinks she'd be capable of anything she'd set her mind to. after all, he wouldn't let just anyone stab him with a tattoo gun's needle. wears the presence of exactly two people against his skin ; one which has started to fade, much like the once freshly laid ink has. this one is still dark in its black lines. briefly wonders if he'd slip away from the shadows from her, too. " alright. alright. enough of that shit. tell me what's new, what's on your mind. hope all this creep talk around the time isn't keeping you up at night. be a real bummer to hear. i've taken the bummer award for the night and i'm not handin' it to you. "

" you do know the consequence to breaking a pinky promise is that i get to break your pinky , right ? " the warning is delivered with narrowed eyes , and all the faux malice of a house cat , despite her best efforts at appearing serious . teasing aside , selin had been genuinely concerned for moment that it might be true , the relief she feels to have him dispel that fear more real than she'd care to admit . remnants of the girl whose day used to be brightened just by catching a glimpse of the other in the hallway still seemed to linger every now and then , even despite the decade that'd passed and the friendship that'd formed between them . " yeah , alright . proving small town stereotypes false one day at a time , then . there really is shit to do around here . " the smoke that billows from his mouth mixes with their warm puffs of breath in the air , transfixing in a way that makes her itch to ask for her own cigarette . she doesn't even smoke , not anymore , but that was the thing about damon . it was easier to crave things off the path she'd settled into in his presence . a smoke , her art — things off limits or out of reach suddenly seem graspable . guilt stirs at the change in tone of his voice , the seriousness feeling foreign . she'd always hated to make people worry , or worse , to make them feel bad . and maybe that's why selin brightens , like she could fill in the bit of lightness he'd shed with his apology . " please , that's water under the bridge already . plus , you know , it's always exciting matching with you . tattoos , black eyes , what's next ? " she bumps his shoulder with her own , lips lifted into what she hopes is a grin that displays she was being genuine in saying it was alright . " i know it was an accident . "

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as much as ricardo's stunt had send effie into a tizzy ... it has sparked a fire under the register's ass. maybe, in a way, it was what was needed. a new spark that wasn't a body or new missing person— but a spark is all it took to birth a blaze. who else would post an anonymous shot in the dark tip? what the fuck else would he approve to be printed onto the web? the passion of recording may have been rekindled, but the weight of fool's gold could send them all into the pits of hell. in this she isn't immune to the bustle ; greeting a few interns, reviewing a concept piece, scratching about her own ideas ( one, specifically, centered around the elusive wanted man ). a little busy bee. buzzing , buzzing all around until it collides with a windshield— out of the corner of her eye she sees the man before his approach. recognizes him in an instant. local fucking celebrities, the talbots. had the town so deep in their pockets, it's astonishing how they're not sinking into the pits themselves. at least, on paper. politicians, even the small kind, love to put on a show. luckily, effie is of that same blood. not a celebrity, but a woman that could paint herself a portrait to please any painter. forget dragging herself to hell when she could paint it in a fantasy. " nathan talbot. " immediate reply in her heel-turn. meets his stride halfway with the raise of a brow towards a coffee.

" busy, interesting. sure, you could say that. " a hand rests to her hip as she studies him. a nasty habit of hers. looking for the fault ; a misprint. people were their own stories with missing pages and different details ommitted depending on its reader. " well, i've been busy. you've seen the front page, heard the buzz. i know you keep yourself well informed. " she hums, " but not enough to know charolette's also busy. " a slight pinch, but she offers it as a jest. pairs it with a light-hearted chuckle. a pinkish red tint for this particular portrait. despite her own columns about this family, she tends to return a good show. wants to dig some of nathan's fool's gold from his pockets. find the cracks. see what exactly he likes to paint. " but you're in luck, someone else here could use that coffee. " the hand resting on her hip raises to grab the second coffee in his hand. what it is, doesn't matter. this action is both to make a point and quench the crave for caffeine. takes a quick sip of it before she continues her brush strokes. " humor me. play a little pretend interview. " the hand with what's now her coffee gestures around, eyes following with the motion. " what's your thoughts on all this? i can't help myself but to ask the man 'in charge', after all. call me greedy. " another sip and a smirk just behind the brim. " gotta have more to say than just asking how i'm doing, or am i wrong? "

𝖫𝖮𝖢𝖠𝖳𝖨𝖮𝖭　:　the register, 12:30pm 𝖲𝖳𝖠𝖳𝖴𝖲　:　closed for effie floyd @c0nnectdots

despite  the  news  that's  been  plaguing  the  town  for  days  now,  one  thing  prevails  in  nathan's  mind:  keeping  up  a  facade.  of  course,  it  isn't  like  he's  being  forced  into  this  charade,  in  fact  his  intentions  are  halfway  to  genuine,  but  playing  pretend  when  everything  else  is  falling  apart  around  him  is  easier  than  having  to  face  the  wreck.  so  here  he  is,  standing  by  the  front  desk  of  the  register  with  two  cups  of  afternoon  coffee,  one  to  give  to  his  beloved  wife  whom  he  is  allegedly  wholly  committed  to  —  except  charlotte  isn't  there,  because  apparently  she  just  left  for  lunch,  so  now  he  looks  like  an  idiot  standing  by  the  entrance  with  two  quickly  cooling  coffees  and  a  mildly  bruised  ego  over  his  failed  attempt  at  being  a  good  husband.  that's  when  he  sees  effie  in  the  corner  of  his  eye,  and  turns  on  his  heel.  “  miss  effie  floyd,  ”  he  calls  out smoothly,  sauntering  over  with  a  picture-perfect  grin  plastered  on  his  face.  “  must  be  a  busy  day  today,  ”  he  remarks,  gesturing  around  him  as  various  employees  walk  in  and  out  and  around  the  bulding.  “  how've  you  been?  there's  been  . . .  quite  a  number  of  interesting  stories  as  of  late.  ”

[c0nnectdots]

" yeah, no, i'm not giving you the satisfaction of some enthusiasm. " what they do give is a shred of amusement ; trickled in there with the lilt of their voice. nadia singh, someone they'd avoided like the fucking plague — a fault not of her own but, well, she should know why. recent years the distance has shrunk, whittled down into something closer to acceptance. mak leans back against the bench with their arms folding across their chest. confusion comes across their face with the concealed concerned. knows her enough it's there, but she's not going to offer it on a silver fucking platter. though at least mak doesn't desire it. it works out in its own way. unfortunately, they both seem to work out in the same space. " hi, nadia, i am absolutely fine. " they're not sure if a haze of thoughts counted as not fine, but they weren't going to go into detail with that. " just lost in thought. the er can be a real fucking drag sometimes, you know? worked an all night and, well ... " waves their hand around. proverbially swatting away the dribble. " so it goes. " they look around at the vacant sidewalk, save a few walkers before they're looking back to nadia. " what're you up to besides bothering me? can never really know with you. "

" the greetings really gone down hill around here . " nadia agrees . she shouldn't be surprised by mak's response . nobody is more defensive and ready to offer brittle words than he is . nadia still has to do the double take sometimes : is it finch , or is it mak ? how can two people look the same yet be so different ? she wonders if anyone ever wonders the same about her and zak . she doubts it . one stayed . one left . there is nothing more to the story . " if i say hello mak nice enough , will you say hello nadia , you're looking beautiful today in your most enthusiastic tone ? " she asks , even though they both already know the answer . nadia offers him a half - smile , a small shrug . " i just wanted to make sure you were ok or whatever . " adding or whatever makes it seem less genuine , less real , less SENTIMENTAL . it's nadia's bread and butter .

[c0nnectdots]

maksym is far from a frequent flier at redstone ; embodies a distant fly on the wall. present, aware, but perched unmoving against the drywall out of sight. this the opposite of their other half. he, present on the stage with bloodied fingers from the strings, rhythm piercing the already buzzed atmosphere. mak is the oddity here, but who the fuck wasn't an oddity in this town anymore? still it lingers in the corner of their mind just how strange they feel in a bar. unwilling to make eye contact with other patrons as if it'd burn. disinterested in musical commodities such as the band ( or, maybe, just because it welcomed finch ). yet they linger. fly, shadow. anything except a person.

they sit with one whiskey neat and eyes glued to the yellow-tint of their phone screen. it's just something for them to do, bade their time as they drown a misplaced discomfort blooming beneath ribs. it doesn't have a name — mak isn't trying to find it either. they don't notice the this time real shadow looming over them. the figure cast by the low light against the counter ignored. just some other resident. someone looking to burn what lurks beneath murky waters with something stronger.

as the old story goes — it wasn't just some fucking resident.

taylan speaks into their space on purpose, he must. mixes in his volatile presence with their still water. it doesn't startle mak, not necessarily, but it births a new gnawing. their tongue clicks in wordless response, fingers tapping against the drained glass. bored? " bored. " it's a scoff, cousin of a mean laugh. mak doesn't grace taylan with the generosity of a full acknowledgement. tilts their head in a similar way, just barely, encroaching into his space like a quiet challenge. eyes obscured by the hike of their shoulder. the problem with being a nurse in red creek, and red creek in general, was being known. even if their brother wasn't a frequent body with taylan they're sure they'd be noticed still. small town. only hospital. they need out of this fucking place, but they haven't found the open window. " was me not fixing your dumbass up at the hospital enough? " caustic in its own way ; biting without the connection of teeth. fuck, they need another drink. two finger wave towards the bartender and they receive another liquid pacifier. it'd never be liquid courage, they aren't in need of that shit. " i'll bite, taylan. what kind of entertainment you offering? besides the threat of a headache. "

where : redstone bar status : closed for @c0nnectdots

redstone bar thrums with its usual chaos - laughter curling into the sharp notes of a jukebox tune , the slap of cards against table , the steady thud of boots against the floorboards . the air is thick with the tang of spilled whiskey , and a haze of distractions that fails to reach him . taylan stands just inside the doorway , the noise washing over him in waves , but doing nothing to sate the gnawing ache in his chest . it’s an insatiable hunger - the kind no drink or idle conversation can dull . his muscle plead for stillness , but his sinews stretch taut , coiled with restless energy that drives him forward . his chest burns hot - a bitterness festering , like old gear abandoned in the shadows of a rink , forgotten and rusting away . the ache lives too deep , a rot he can’t scrape out , a void that won't be satisfied by anything less than destruction . his eyes flick to the far end of the bar , landing on mak . wrong twin . finch would’ve been a guarantee of chaos , a devil perched on his shoulders , whispering bad ideas into his ear . mak , though , is all stiff-backed judgement , more locked door than partner in crime . taylan moves toward him anyway , his shadow dragging heavy across the floorboards . when he reaches the bar , he doesn’t sit . he looms , shadow pooling over mak's sharp shoulders . for a moment , he says nothing , doesn't even look at them , just signals for a drink . the sharp clink of glass against the counter cuts through the noise . then , with the barest tilt of his head , taylan leans in close enough to crowd their space . “ you look bored . ” he murmurs , low and sardonic , curling between them like smoke . “ let me fix that . ”

[c0nnectdots]

" i'm pretty sure a fight makes the punching part pretty equal. otherwise it's just getting jumped. " this, not spoken with sarcasm. cut and dry, like some gin. their eyes glance down towards the beer bottle that the second owner of the bar glances to. wonders, briefly, if he thinks its tending to a habit. salt to the wound and the still slightly throb of a jaw. damon sighs, almost defeated as he all but sinks into the bar. arm folder, chin propped. " hey, c'mon, already went on my apology string — like a fucking gentleman — and paid for the bottle my skull broke. " reminds him, a bit, of when his mother would scold him. not that zak's comparable to his fucking mother, but its in similar vein. act like a gentleman, reeeeel it innnn. that type of shit. and he has, for the most part. impressive he'd just now broken the streak of no-punching after two years. " yeah, yeah. pip-pip cheerio all the way. " pause, point of a finger, " you seen that poster around? change subjects. since i already know i've been a bad little boy with a bad attitude ... lemme talk t' you like i'm just some guy. " they really are just some guy.

"no  shit,"  is  an  immediate  reply  back,  something  akin  to  a  glower  on  zak's  features  as  he  stretches  up  and  back,  almost  cat  -  like,  lazy  and  languid.  the  hem  of  his  shirt,  already  cropped  too  short,  rises  -  then  falls  again  as  he  leans  forearms  against  the  bar  top,  rag  tossed  over  hunched  shoulders.  "so,  were  you  the  one  who  got  the  shit  punched  out  of  him,  or  the  one  who  did  all  the  fucking  -  punching?"  his  eyes  fall  onto  the  beer  bottle;  gaze  lingering  for  a  moment  before  he  peels  them  away  to  stare  into  space  -  cramped  and  small.  it's  -  ironic.  a  (  former  )  alcoholic  owning  a  bar.  co  -  owning,  anyways.  more  like  -  watching.  babysitting  the  patrons.  making  sure  no  more  fights  break  out  when  abel's  attending  to  his  own  business.  "you  even  -  look  at  someone  the  wrong  way,  and  your  ass'll  be  out  the  door.  i'm  expecting  some  fucking  -  gentlemen  shit.  bowing  before  others,  tipping  your  fucking  -  hat.  i'm  expecting  a  fucking  -  pip  pip  cheerio,  when  you  leave."

[c0nnectdots]

the laugh is instantaneous and coupled with the two of a kind slap against the bar. " man, of the text-book medical journal identity kind, what the absolute fuck are you talking about. " pied piper, heart and soul, ariana fucking grande. it all feels like shit pulled from the cat in the hat — as in pulled from the cat's hat. " shit, you might just be killing me from all of this. the fucker joker, but like actually ... not the freak from the comics. " now, if there was something damon could pull endlessly from it'd be comic series. get him talking about those and ... oh, you'd be sitting for hours. especially after a few beers, a few joints. probably the realest they'd be without a proverbial crowbar. " you know, i'll buy your next drink. got me forgetting all about halloween night. got anything else in that head of yours though, kings? heebies or jeebies."

kingsley holds up his hands , half sheepish , half entertained . " if it is you , are you gonna kill me ? " he checks . " cause can you really kill someone who might not even be alive ? we're in purgatory here . that's what redcreek really is . we're here to pay for our sins , but not to a god . no way . to something else . the pied piper maybe . " kingsley lifts a shoulder and shrugs . " i'd never spout meaningless shit . everything i say , i mean with my entire heart and soul , which i think really do exist , but could be made out of paper straw or something . maybe this is all a wizard of oz gimmick . but if i see ariana grande i'm outta here , y'know ? she gives me the heebies ."

[c0nnectdots]

right, kieran worked at the hospital in the confines of the mortuary. fitting. a worn in boot. but to paint this conversation into scenery it'd be something of its own autopsy. steady hand of a scalpel, careful examination, but something is just ... missing. a rib, maybe a vital organ. something is missing. its in the kieran answers clear and decisively paired with little twitches of his mouth. subtleties, but constructive. the art filing causations and inconsistencies into the report. ( see, damon is also watching them ; honoring that felinic look of theirs but they're not to point it out unlike kieran. ) corner of his lips twitches, the corner of theirs rise in a smirk. " and you hang at cemeteries when you're drunk. yeah, i'll keep that tidbit in mind. c'mon you seemed like you had some fun, maybe i should've stuck around for the hangover. " it's a jest, but he wonders vaguely what plot of dirt if any kieran sunk at.

space doesn't grow, but remains the same with damon leaning into kieran's atmosphere. they wouldn't mark it up as feeling melancholic, but something is dreary about it. comparable to walking into a locked room where you're not suppose to be — the drift of your fingers over a dusted old journal. kieran speaks of how mysterious damon is as if he's a book. maybe they are the book in that locked room. kieran the seeker, the fingers knocking off dust. yeah, that's more accurate. eyes scan his face noticeably only flickering in a break to a scuttling piece of newspaper. they settle right back on him after that second. " knowing people. knowing what they're feeling. and are you an open book, kieran talbot? it's only fair to be. if you're trying to read any of my text. " another deflection, but it comes with an air of honesty. heavy, damn near suffocating. if this was some sort of game, another pin in his corkboard ... maybe damon would start caring about the trials and tribulations coming into good ol' dead creek.

what's terrifying more than any potential knife in kieran's or damon's, they do carry a butterfly knife pocket is that— he's right. getting to know damon was a maze of his own design ; dead ends at nearly every corner, multiple forks and circles. calculated in a way that, yeah, they can understand the suspicion towards them. they could have just answered 'no' and left it, but they ushered kieran to take a left turn instead of towards the maze's exit. hums when he leans closer, head canting slightly up to make up for the difference in height. would never admit it put him on some sort of edge how he could leer over them. what sort of edge, too, would remain unspoken. " you know. i'd almost love to see you try, kier. opening me up like those lil' cadavers. " challenges because that is what's natural. nonfictitious. " gives me something to look over my shoulder for. " it's a smooth drawl, a low whisper of upping whatever ante. " cause, hey, maybe you're the one whose really holding the knife. yeah ... yeah, that'd be a twist, right? get to know me in a way that's satisfying enough to all your little questions and whatever else, fucking theories, and then. " lifts two fingers and juts them forward. almost jabs them into kieran's side. almost. they hang in the air just like whatever tension is building. " sink! goes the butcher's knife. "

arm falls from the buildings bricks and opts to cross both of them over his chest. they couldn't keep the serious tone up for long, finding it a bit ... stifling. therefore, it breaks. smile split across their lip and gaze cast towards the ground as their head shakes. shoulders shake, laughter bubbling from the chest. " jesus, kieran. you're really something fucking else, hah? " slow trail of their eyes to that face, laze of the split smile still there. " could've just said i'm spooky. save the melodramatics. lighten up, talbot boy. asking that type of question to all your contacts ... that damn question might be the last. and that's just sad for your type. "

ꜜ ﹙ ⚰️  ﹚ ﹕ there   was   always   a   weight   to   the   questions   kieran   asked⸻   settling   thick   in   the   air   between   him   and   damon,   distorting   everything   around   them.   it   wasn't   really   just   about   the   words   themselves,   but   the   intent   behind   them.   a   curiosity.   a   peculiar   interest   he   wasn't   exactly   sure   what   to   do   with.   maybe   it   had   something   to   do   with   that   bold   letter   tattooed   on   damon's   collarbone.   or   maybe   it   was   the   way   kieran   could   just   stare   into   those   cat   eyes   and   let   the   seconds   go   by.   but   asking   someone   if   they   had   killed   another   person   wasn't   something   he   could   ever   take   back   ﹕   it   lingered,   like   filth.   truth,   however,   never   arrived   without   a   cost.   it   dragged   things   up   from   the   depths,   debris   and   wreckage   tangled   in   its   nets.   you   could   never   find   it   clean,   and   you   surely   could   never   pursue   it   without   getting   dirty.   kieran   didn’t   believe   damon   killed   alaina   price—   not   really.   but   he   still   wanted   to   get   to   know   him.   and   there   were   many   truths   you   could   learn   about   someone   from   the   way   they   answered   a   question   they   didn't   have   time   to   prepare   for.

“   i   already   know   what   she   was   killed   with.   thierry   gore   and   i   conducted   her   autopsy.   ” said   matter-of-fact,   head   canted   slightly   as   he   studied   damon,   listening   to   their   words,   tracking   the   subtle   shifts   in   his   expression   and   posture,   gaze   piercing   but   not   exactly   cruel.   and   there   he   heard   the   first   truth⸻    damon   del   valle   was   facetious,   deflected   with   mockery,   dodging   what   should   be   an   easy   (   albeit   a   little   insulting   )   yes-or-no   question   with   inquiries   of   his   own.   it   almost   made   kieran   smile,   could   see   why   finch   would   get   along   with   damon   in   this   very   moment     ﹕     both   cut   from   the   same   flippant   cloth.   but   he   kept   a   straight   face,   low   sigh   slipping   past   his   lips.    “    you   got   me   wasted   ...   and   next   thing   i   know,   i   was   walking   down   the   road   to   the   cemetery   with   the   worst   headache   i've   ever   had.   don't   think   i'll   be   the   guy   to   clear   your   name   if   anyone   else   accuses   you,   damon.   ”    a   quiet   chuckle,   pondering   about   the   question   and   the   criteria,   all   whilst   he   realized   the   second   truth   about   damon   del   valle from this exchange⸻    they   liked   to   muddy   the   water,   to   keeps   people   guessing,   to   keep   themself   feeling   untouchable.   and   kieran   had   done   the   same,   and   it   was   fine   for   most   things,   but   not   this.   not   in   a   murder   investigation.   and   certainly   not   against   kieran's   stubborn   interest in wayward minds.    “    i   like   knowing   people,   damon.   i   want   to   know   what   they're   thinking   about.   how   they're   feeling.   their   deepest   darkest   secrets.   and   you'll   be   surprised   to   know   just   how   transparent   most   people   are.   all   the   ways   they   give   themselves   away.   in   the   way   they   speak,   in   how   they   carry   themselves.   and   seeing   those   things   is   how   i   take   people   off   my   suspect   list.    ”    his   words   came   slow   and   deliberate,   a   faint   curl   tugging   at   the   corner   of   his   mouth,   not   quite   a   smile,   more   like   a   reflex   he   hadn't   decided   to   suppress.   “   but   not   you.   you're   real   good   at   makin'   people   feel   close   to   you   while   giving   nothing.   talking   and   talking   and   talking   and   still   say   nothing   at   all.   and   that's   a   little   terrifying   when   you're   trying   to   find   a   killer.    ”     he   let   the   silence   stretch,   but   only   for   a   moment,   didn't   want   to   give   damon   too   much   room   to   deflect,   to   sidestep   the   weight   of   what   was   hanging   between   them.   and   kieran   leaned   his   body   toward   damon   slightly as he   whispered     ﹕      “   but   i   pay   close   attention.   don't   worry,   i'll   figure   you   out.   ”     

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" i wouldn't call it brooding, lela. self reflection is good for the soul, ain't it? i'm getting old. " snorts as their hand snatches the bottle from its spinning. old, that's just a fucking excuse. still, they'd been on their best behavior lately. fights had all but left themselves in the dirt for the past year, the broken chairs repaired ... might as well put a gold star on their board! still, they remember the plights of their ear twenties. some secondhand embarrassments, some hilarious bonfire stories. the big, wet eyes of their mother might've finally caught up to them. among other things. ( the lingering suspicion of being brought in for questioning for wrong place wrong time, wrong punch thrown. kept their record clear as day somehow it ought to say that way ). damon mimics lela's, but with their chin propped up on their fist. " good behavior ... what's that to you, hm? " lips curl into a smile, head tilted forward just slightly, " would buying you a drink count? you think i'm brooding. can't with your company. "

lela leans against the bar, one arm propped casually on the counter as she watches damon spin his bottle. her expression is unreadable at first, lips pressed into a faint line, though the flicker of amusement in her eyes gives her away. "yeah, 'cause spinning your beer like that is definitely the way to save face," she quips, her voice carrying that dry, teasing edge she’s mastered. she shifts slightly, resting her chin on her hand as she regards him. "but, hey, credit where it’s due. you’re keeping it tame tonight. no broken chairs, no shouting matches. i almost don’t recognize you." there’s a pause, her gaze softening slightly, though the smirk stays. "though, murder night or not, you’ve still got a knack for getting people to remember your name, don’t you?" she tilts her head, tapping her fingers against the bar. "so, what’s the plan, damon? you just here to nurse that one bottle and brood, or are you gonna surprise me with some actual good behavior?"

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a certain restlessness has taken root in damon's bones. insurmountable energy that just couldn't be placed. maybe it was because their hands were empty ( except for their take-out piece of toast ) and the day unfulfilling in every possible way. what the average citizen of redcreek doesn't expect out of damon was how money driven they were. likely, they'd pick up just about any job. taxi service, weekender at the diner, the bar, the warehouse ... anything to add weight to his pockets. well, maybe they do. they're everywhere. also nowhere. a hard little mouse to keep track of, but a mouse after cheese nonetheless.

they're chewing with a spacy eyes, looking towards the bustling customers headed towards the car or down the street. recalls some of the faces: tyler, from the gas station. dwayne, a mid shifter getting off work from the diner, priscilla or miss. priss from the tenth fucking grade. faces and faces they'd seen from their lifelong stay in the creek. what pulls them back down to earth is the loud, recognizable voice of none other than tobias northcott. a pause of their chewing, a squint of their eyes. " what, think i'm not suitable for the public, northcott? " northcott in return for short - streak.

" think your temperature is running a bit too high there. it's fucking nipply. " they return to their piece of toast, tongue chasing the grape jelly from the side of their mouth. tobias, a goddamn blunder of a newcomer. well, not really new anymore, but maybe they will be again. also everywhere and nowhere. must be why they keep rubbing shoulders. if damon were a different person, maybe like kieran, they'd be questioning what tobias got up to in the dead oof night. thumb to mouth, releases it with an obnoxious little ' pop! ' the silence is dragged on to be just as obnoxious, dramatic. " i got a better question for you. the hell you tryin' to trip into? good standings with the waitresses? "

closed starter: @c0nnectdots — damon del valle . located @ dolly's diner & in the surrounding circumference .

arriving  in  town  for  the quintessential  american  breakfast  means  that  his  taste  buds  are  open.  he  adapts.  he  blends.  (  actually,  this  just  means  that  dolly's  is  the  easiest  place  to  go  after  an  all  -  nighter.  )  but  who  pulls  that  kind  of  thing?  no  circles  under  his  eyes,  no  bedhead,  no  lackadaisical  jacket  —  surely  not  him.  (  it's  him.  )  tobias,  hands  stuffed  in  the  pockets  of  his  canary  -  yellow  letterman,  blisters  about  as  obnoxious  as  an  off  -  key  warbler  as  he  coaxes  his  way  across  the  diner  parking  lot.  hey,  hey,  how's  it  going?  felix,  right?  because  he  remembers  those  brazen  enough  to  knock  their  heads  getting  to  his  dj  booth  on  a  busy,  whirring  night.  he  remembers  them,  all  the  way  down  to  the  cut  of  their  jaw  —  and  the  distinct  upturned  curl  of  their  hair  —  and  the  way  ink  ribbons  follow  their  shoulders  —

fuck,  what  the  fuck  is  damon  doing  here?  disguised:  he  releases  felix's  shoulders  and  aims  both  guns,  they're  both  made  of  fingers,  in  damon's  direction.  “no  way!”  smile  already  curling  around  the  greeting.  “well,  well.  fancy  seeing  you  here,  short  -  streak.  what  kinda  meet  -  cute  bullshit  are  we  tripping  our  way  into?”  his  steps  were  quick  before;  they  quicken  further.  golden  retriever  bounding,  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  grinning,  it's  all  the  same  after  the  eleventh  hour. "least you deserve, after all this not - so - radical heat burning the shit outta your neck."

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damon had purposely seated himself at the bar during its slow hours. typical hangout for the slower afternoons. the doordash notifications were dry as a fucking desert, even for the miles long drives. the phone sits just out of reach, their fingers tapping to the tune of the music without a second thought. savannah speaks and it has damon humming out of tune to the beat - music never their strong suit despite the creative heart. rhythms lost to their racing thoughts, but they could still enjoy it. cheek rests against his palm, lips pursing as he considers his reply.

" probably a good thing you weren't there. " briefly thinks back to the collateral damage. a bottle they'd had to pay for, selin in particular being in the middle of it ... fuuuuuuuck they wish they were drunk enough that night to wipe it from their memory. regardless of this, he laughs something low from the chest. " i won't judge you, thirty and flirty is still a thing who cares about trick or treating ... wait, no. scratch that. as long as you were dressed up as something cool i'll let it slide. lemme guess. " this, a good conversation to distract from the lingering weight on their chest. fingers drum a bit faster against his phone screen. " actually, this is just as basic. tinkerbell? no, no, princess daisy? "

Seated at the bar enjoying a round before the band was set to perform, the drummer can't help but overhear the individual whom was a few seats down from her. There wasn't much of a crowd at this point in the evening yet, other nights being busier in the past. Maybe people just weren't in the mood to drink or hear live music? It's not like there was anything worth celebrating as of late. Savannah wouldn't really blame it if there was more of a crappy turnout for tonight's gig. But, part of her secretly hoped the band wouldn't have to perform for less than their usual number of audience.

Taking a sip from her beer, she offered Damon a sympathetic glance. "If it makes you feel any better, I wasn't there to see the fight. I was too busy trying to score the good candy," she lets out a small giggle. "If you don't give me shit for being almost thirty trick or treating, I won't give you shit for being here."

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oscar had a way of saying things even more outlandish than damon could ever think of. speaking of god, the use of ghastly. a stunted expression crosses their face ; oscar perplexing them as clear as the glasses behind the bar. widened eyes remain fixed against their jawline, mouth ever so slightly parted. as stalwart as it is, their expression shifts with a bang, " well ! " the bang a loud clap of his palms together. " color me fucking flabbergasted! cat catching my tongue. " a bark of laughter as the clapped palms slap against the wood. they knock back their drink with haste, letting the warmth fizzle against their tongue for a moment. " alright, alright. c'mon, spooky ... get to readin' me or whatever. i'm surprised you took me seriously. i was not on this planet. "

óscar  glances  up  from  the  edge  of  their  arnold  palmer,  the  thus  -  far  untouched  three  -  car  spread  that  damon  asked  for  three  days  ago  awaiting  to  reveal  his  fate.  but  what  they  can't  anticipate  is  what  óscar  will  say  to  him;  in  fact,  óscar  themself  can't  predict  a  diddly  -  dang  thing  that  comes  out  their  mouth.  “damon.  we've  both  lived  here  a  long  time.” sage.  serious.  “y'know  i'm  the  only  one  who's  gonna  tell  you:  not  even  god  herself can  save  your  face.” gestures  on  his  own  jawline,  smears  where  a  missed  strip  of  five  o'clock  shadow  seemed  to  stand  on  -  edge,  little  toy  soldiers  of  hair  follicles.  “en  el  nombre  del  padre.”  leaves  the  creed  unfinished,  but  crosses  the  little  area  over  damon's  person.  “now  quit  stalling  and  ask  me  your  question  again.  this  music?  it's  ghastly.  i  can't  remember  a  thing.”

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Okay maybe mama did raise a fool

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there's a certain sort of air to kieran fucking talbot. and something about it has garnered damon's interest. enough to latch onto him halloween night— get him out of that little air pocket of his. it has their mind straying, wondering if kieran had some actual fucking fun with it or if they regretted it come morning. was he the type to have a hangover? did he remember the rest of it after damon scampered off? its his own personal questions posed internally. questions he might've asked with kieran's sudden appearance before the conversation forks. a character listing, something about due diligence and an alibi— and then a car's tires skid. not on the road beside them but in damon's head ; an echoing 'skrrrchhh!' at the question proposed:

'did you kill alaina price?'

bold. sudden. but maybe that's exactly what kieran was. bolder than damon could ever give them credit for. damon's blinking rapidly, three times to be exact as a mass wave of emotions wrack through their chest. confusion, why the fuck is he asking me that? discomfort, is that the type of person he thinks i am? intrigue, does he ask everybody that? it swirls and swirls until a fourth option is decided on. its amusement, almost, but likes the merry warmth that normally comes with it. gotta keep up that facade of his. otherwise kieran might really think he's suspicious. answers first with a sharp laugh and then a near whisper, " gonna ask what i killed her with next? " a humoring of the question, tone low and almost a little too serious. they're adjusting the way they lean against the wall. forearm pressed to the bricks and angled slightly more towards kieran's lean. " don't want to be used as an alibi, but i think you're already my alibi from halloween night. you the type of drunk that doesn't remember a wink, kier? " poses a question back to kieran, too fucking curious to see the rebuttal. this is denial in damon's way. taking the all-too-fucking-serious inquiry and turning it almost to a mockery. its not that they don't feel for the poor woman, but the personally known fact they didn't fucking do it. something burns in the center of their chest. a match freshly lit, sulfur tickling his nose. " humor me one more time here. i wanna know how that mind of yours works. " the hand not suspended with their lean gestures towards kieran ; a two fingered lazy point. " 'cause its real ... bold to ask someone if they're a murderer. unless you just like flirting with danger. "

his head tilts to the side, " the fuck makes you think that? seriously, i gotta know the criteria. "

ꜜ ﹙ ⚰️  ﹚ ﹕ there was a quiet kind of sickness to trailing someone like damon del valle⸻ a moral vertigo that came from the careful balance of what he was hoping to find versus what he was afraid to be true. and kieran had always been acquainted with people like them ﹕ the restless, unmoored types that lived in the liminal spaces between good intentions and bad decisions. he didn't want to suspect damon, not really. in fact, he had always admired their ability to be the sparkplug of any gathering. he could never be the same kind as damon, only the kind to fall for it ﹕ just like he did on halloween night, when he let damon flush a couple of hours of clarity and cognizance down the drain, in favor of alcohol and released inhibitions. but the more he looked at him, the more he spent time in their light, the more kieran realized that there was always something missing. a lack of true knowledge over who damon really was at their core. it was like watching smoke rise from a cigarette, wondering if it was the start of a fire or just the smolder of something already spent. and it didn't help that damon insisted on hanging out in places like this ﹕ dingy back alleys with dubious company, the smell of stale beer, weed and the distant exhaust curling up between buildings. it painted them in a light that was difficult to ignore⸻ placing kieran in a peculiar purgatory between suspicion and the gut feeling damon was not the one. not that it would change anything. truth didn't care about his gut. but still, kieran wanted to clear their name, or more specifically, trying to clear them off a growing list of people who could've killed alaina price that night. he thought about all his other suspects, compared them to damon, but the loud scrape of a boot against fractured pavement snapped him out of his mind, avoiding their gaze for a moment and watched the cars on the road, as if he hadn't been waiting here for this exact moment. “ i think i'm more clarice starling. fox mulder. dale cooper. ” kieran responded flatly, though not unkind. he leaned back, weight settling against the brick wall, gaze shifting toward damon's hands instead⸻ almost amused by the gestures, but mostly curious of what those hands were truly capable of. “ listen— damon. i'm not here to waste your time. just doing my due diligence, really. ' cause i'd really hate to be used as some kind of alibi, ” a pause, not a long one, but enough to let the weight of the moment stretch thin. then, he finally looked into their eyes and asked the question, landing with no ceremony or inflection, just a nonchalant query that even piqued the attention of some people passing by ﹕ “ did you kill alaina price ? ”

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" clearly those melodramatic fucking monologues still get your attention. " words are accompanied by a laugh. sure, they'd noticed the guitarist doing what he does best up on the bar's stage. strumming like there's something to lose in the strings vibrations. hard not to, given history. given damon's insistence on knowing who he was in the room with. the expression on his face shows he doesn't mind finch's appearance, but the scrunch of his nose shows he minds their tab. the snagged bottle didn't even receive that much attention. " and you're still getting me to pay for your drinks. shit just don't change. " and it never seems to. if one day the sky dusted in technicolor, letting off sparks ... maybe they'd view red creek in a different light. the corner of their mouth twitches in a smirk towards the roaming gaze— their own sharp gaze fliting towards a covered hipbone. acknowledgement. a ' F ' and a ' D '. always some sort of reminder they both were here. " well, finny, ain't that the question? what haven't i fucking done? " two fingers tap against the wood of the bar. they mimic the rhythm strummed on the bass just moments ago ; the thing that countered the slight tension in the atmosphere. maybe that was just damon's, though. anxiety they'd briefly exposed with that dramatic fucking monologue. they'll stick to biting their tongue again. damon doesn't offer a toast, but their newly opened bottle clinks against finch's with a satisfying noise. they take a moment to continue, swallowing down a long drink. just for those melodramatics finch loved to point out.

" got into a fight right where we're sitting and you'll never guess when ... fucking murder night. halloween homicide. " tattooed hand with the bottle lifts to slice a finger across their own neck, " talk about bad timing, but looks like i've skeeved my way past the consequences of my actions. " their body leans just slightly closer. it isn't enough to breach personal space, but enough to prove attention is zeroed in on the younger man. beer released and rested on a coaster in favor of leaning against their own arms. " what kinda shit you been into lately, huh? "

*    ❪   🦇   ❫    ﹕ 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲'𝘀 𝗮   𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗽   𝗼𝗳   𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘀   𝗼𝗻   𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻   𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿   𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗱𝗲𝘀   in a job well done as   he worms  his way  through   the   crowd,   guitar   strapped   against   his   back   in   an   embellished   shield   for   the   A/C   that   threatens   to   dry   him   up   like   an   orange   peel.   metal   strings   are   splattered   with   the   blood   that   seeps   through   the   bandages   pasted   erratically   on   each   slim,   boney   digit.  ❛ what   the  fuck   are   you  even  chatting about ? ❜  he interjects, icy hues glancing over at the older man. a   familiar   face   that   usually   serves   to   spark   an   irritable   flame,   but   the   stench   of   violent   forthcomings   demands  attention from someone who relishes it,   letting   the   conversation   further   rather   than   die   out.   ❛ still   haven't   let   go of those   melodramatic   fucking   monologues. ❜    their   temper included.   it's what had kept the two tethered to one another. that and, other things.  finch's   gaze   roams   their physique,   seeking   out the   assumably   faded   ' F ' initial   that   marks   his   territory.  ❛ what'd   you   do,   d ? ❜    straight canines bare a lazy smile,   snatching   the   bottle   and   downing   it   in   one   parched   swig   before   tapping   it   against   the   island.  ❛ two more rox,   put   it   on   their   tab. ❜ 

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immediately damon pauses, bottle almost comically suspended just inches from their mouth. leave it to kingsley to say something absolutely, positively outlandish enough to get them to pause. it has them pondering for a moment ; taking in each word piece by piece like tic-tacs. it's clear on their face they're thinking about it — the thought process is broken by a laugh. " man. colloquially. you know what, kingsley, you're alright, buuuuuuuut lets backtrack real quick. " they're taking a swig of the beer before they spin it in a circle in his directly. " how many people you drop that on, huh? giving a little ... motive drop just to see if they'd twitch? or you just spouting some shit? " it's interesting. enough so that, maybe, if damon was too lost in his cups he might be thinking: oh fuck, is it me? " i like it. it's juicy. maybe the register will get a kick outta it. "

" it'd be crazy if you were the one making everyone disappear and be murdered . " kingsley says aloud , mainly to himself , but too blase to really notice it may not be everyone's favourite topic. " like . . . you know what i'm saying ? either you're an idiot who's bad at killing and snatching people , by drawing attention to yourself . or you're a GENIUS , cause who'd suspect you now ? " kingsley shakes his head in amusement . he looks to damon and gives a small shrug . " never any trouble to me , my man who's gender non-conformity i whole-heartedly respect , and when i say ' man ' i mean it colloquially , not that i actually see you as such , per se . "