reidhalstead

[reidhalstead]

ANIKA BOOKER & REID HALSTEAD ⸻ HEADCANONS ( 2 / ?? )

Moths, in nature, followed patterns. They were drawn to light even when it killed them. Faces blurred by foggy memory, an insignificant meeting at an insignificant place, where hunters met life with death on their minds, where night fell like a blanet of sorrows, where tired feet and aching bones gathered around firelight, stomachs full for once, and hands too sore to hold weapons much longer. Where they stopped to regroup, regather their breath, and replan their next move. Regroup. Regather. Replan. A routine so mundane it blurred into itself, except when it left an imprint; one that gathered dust in minds too crowded with grief to notice. It’s not something they’ll ever know, because time had already erased the tremble in young hands holding a gun for the first time. It wiped the tears from grief filled eyes, where the pain of loss still ached, still bled raw beneath the surface. Time had stopped a lionheart from beating. And filled a troubled mind with hate for anything too human to comprehend.

‘Alright, sunshine, move your foot— No, not there, wider. You’re not gonna stay upright like that unless you’re planning to miss.‘ ‘I’ve shot before.‘ ‘Yeah?‘ His hand shot out to reposition a pair of stiff, bony hands. ‘Doesn't look like it." Her jaw locked in stubborn silence. "Okay, now breathe, you know, in through the nose— like a human person?‘ Was she not breathing? Maybe stuffy lugs had ceased moving, heavy with all that she was holding inside. Then a flicker of movement, when a pale blur drifted down from nowhere and settled, soft as snow, right on the barrel of her gun. They both stilled. After a breath, Reid leaned in and squinted at the thing. ‘Well, look at that. Even the bugs think you're harmless.‘ ‘It's a dagger moth.‘ ‘Excuse me, professor.‘ "It'll sting you if you touch it.‘ ‘It's a moth.‘ ‘It doesn't have to look dangerous to hurt.‘

Years later that moth had followed her, settling on the hilt of her dagger as though it had chosen it for a final resting place, the outline of its shape carved into the wood. And in some nowhere town, that same blade would find its way into the leg of a man who didn’t remember young girls with trembling hands. He didn’t remember dangerous moths. The only ones she ever saw again were the ones etched into her knives. Her words had long slipped from his memory. And his lessons had long been buried beneath the sharper teachings of a woman with one good eye.

But the pattern had already begun, even if neither of them had realized it yet.

He’s looking at her, tracing hooded eyes over the details of each and every feature. He’s reared himself back against the seat of the booth, fixing himself there. Suddenly observant in this exchange, it’s like he’s seen a photograph somewhere; a faint bloodied thing that’s resembling her. Reid knows plenty of hunters, and they have the twisted knowledge to know him. Just, minus a few tragic details. [ . . . ] Attention back to her drink. The taste of it didn’t even sting going down. Numb, from the lack of any twitch of face muscles, to the frosty insides. An iceberg, of sorts — if he kept staring too hard, it’d most certainly earn him a brainfreeze. The edge of her knife was already pressed to the outside of his thigh. ‘You think I look like someone you know, but I don’t.‘ she wanted to put an end to the staring. Heartbeat picking up —

Moths, in nature, always returned. They liked to invade a safe place. It resurfaced one night in a hallway that smelled of cheap liquor, where laughter that was once a foreign sound to both of them, echoed off the walls. Drunk hands found a marker, and the sharp of its ink dripped onto his wrist, the opposite of a wound he stil felt on the outside of his thigh. A mark of pain, and another of a connection so fragile, it could snap in a moment. That moth had become a shared language now.

‘It’s not like I live with a tattooist or anything, who could draw me some cool moth or whatever.‘ ‘Why a moth?‘ ‘Moths always fly to light when in the dark,‘ ‘Oh wow, you a poet now?‘ [ . . . ] Reid turns his head a little, peering down at the shape she’d formed so far on his wrist, he’s always wondered, and he’s never had the balls to ask. Because Anika’s never once mentioned. ‘Is… do you like them for representing death? Is that what you see in them? Like the symbolism?‘ ‘I'm not big on symbolism.‘ [ . . . ] ‘Erica, my older sister— We had a moth problem. Annoying fucking things everywhere. Took us forever to get rid of them. Turns out — she had a two year old box of tea in her room. Might have been three, I don’t remember the details but — it was her fucking tea. They were living in it. I’ve never even seen her drink tea. It’s for her.‘ she said. ‘And now it’s for you, too,‘ The moth, he supposes. ‘But it might as well mean that I’m hard to get rid of.‘ ‘Damn, my whole plan had been to rid of you. That’s a shame.‘ It’s not. He doesn’t. God he doesn’t. 

Moths, in nature, followed instinct. And some patterns didn't end, they just kept circling back, again and again, and again—

[reidhalstead]

There's no surprise he's staring down the barrel of Anika's gun. This is practically a greeting for them now. Brutal, unforgiving and different levels of psychotic. This time it lingers at his head. Another circumstance would have this be amusing, but the warmth of seeing her, doesn't quite reach his eyes. He'd tug the gun south, until it would be against his heart, and remind her that she'd do better pointing it there.

But he doesn't. Because he's just murdered his friend, and brought him off the edge of death with a curse far worse than any reaper could dish out.

The most harrowing part, is not that Reid did it. Because he can turn the dial of his emotions to suit the indifference, if he wants to. As long as he doesn't dim it completely, he thinks he can control that. (He ignores that he's playing with fire.) It's the act of telling Anika what he's done, and watching her pull away from him. And she should. They'd been dancing dangerous lines since he stepped foot in the motel in March. If he tells her, does she think he'll do that to her, next? Now that he's crossed that line, it's easier to do it again, again—

There's no kidding here and his key is in his pocket.

Maybe he did think he needed to be shot. But Anika's lowering her weapon, face falling like he's told her the sick news already. Reid doesn't know where to begin, other than a pained twitch of his lip, and a cold, senseless confession.

He doesn't even know if Anika knows Cam. "I hurt a friend last night," a beat, where he looks past her to the state of the inside of the motel room, and back again. His tongue prods at teeth, knowing she'll understand what he means: "—and I brought him back."

Who the fuck even knew the address of this shithole? Delivery boys had either been held at gunpoint, compelled, or fucking dead (that one time they’d had a fight about it).

Her mind rifled through names like a hit list, one hand dragging the gun up, cocking it with a clack and aiming it at the door. It was a sloppy motion, but quick. Precision required either more hands or more practice, and she had neither at the moment. She was rusty when it came to killing monsters, but she’d put a bullet in one without thinking if it showed up at her door. Fucking assholes really liked to take their time, didn't they? That door was older than the damn building, she'd bet. One kick, just one fucking half-decent shove and it would collapse inward. So what was the fucking hold up? Fuck, if this was fucking Liam again, she’d make his mother regret not swallowing.

Then that rusty old thing swung open, and the barrel of her gun met a pair of blue eyes. "Are you fucking kidding me?" She’d lost count of how many times she’d pointed a weapon at this man. Might as well be considered foreplay at this point. "Did you lose your fucking key or something?"

It was the only sane reason he’d knock on the door, when he knew she’d shoot whatever was on the other end of it without asking questions first.

Her eyes tracked downward to his hands, painted crimson, still trembling. Fuck me. The gun dropped to her side, and her brows knit with worry. A lump rose in her throat before she could shove it down. She didn’t want to ask where he’d been. Didn’t want to know why he hadn’t called. But old fears reared their heads, full bodied and feral, tearing up through her ribs.

"…What happened?"

[reidhalstead]

In every version he'd imagined Anika, even the one where she were dead to him. Not once has he envisioned the quiet, breathless whines that he catches between his lips now with every hungry kiss. How much have they lost of themselves? Because he can notice that, but doesn't stop to relieve them of their pants. Doesn't think of the difficulty of wrestling for clothes, with only one set of digits. It doesn't stop her affront, even as he pictures his hands around her throat earlier, stealing the air from her lungs. He wants to kiss away the pain, not for her, but for him.

Everything's so fresh in his mind as he balances the methodical from the emotional. Someone did this to her. It's as beastly an act, as the savagery he'd been. Tormenting her until she broke him away from the chains of his perdition. And now she wants to take off their clothes, and finish what they'd once started.

Anika can't know what's happening to him, or what's happened to make him this way. Even as she adjusts underneath him, warm palm on his face, a wrist of another lingers on his other side. The stone of his eyes softens, because she desires to see something in them that he'll never see himself.

Reid dips his head down to gently kiss her wrist, beneath where a hand used to be. Pulls back up in equal measure, watches her turmoil, and her agonies as though he'd be able to carry them for her. What's more pain, on top of all of his? What use is monstrous strength, if he cannot carry those loads? The sound that leaves his mouth is something inhuman, a frustration growled low. Mouths collide, gentle, like he's remembering how to be that. Teeth trap her lip once and he lets go the moment he knows the pulse begins to drag his attention elsewhere.

"You're not the problem, Booker."

It's him. She has to know that. From the moment he crouched down at her dying side in the alley, to the bitter, laughing refusal to allow her to leave; to save a father who he's told her can handle himself. He's not what she remembers, with hungers that are tenfold to what they used to be. She's half naked, and he's thinking about her blood.

It sparks violence in his eyes, as he rakes eyes down her face, lingers on her throat, travels the length of her chest, stomach until he's met with the hem of her jeans. Scars like sonnets on her flesh, he might be reminded to know what they sing, if he discovers the taste of them. He knows he's going to be selfish, even if he fronts this faux noble gesture of hesitation. She doesn't have to push him hard, to have him cave, she never has.

She doesn't need to know he's buried guilt and grief, alongside the kindness in order to allow desires to surface. Anika doesn't have to see that there's a darkness he has to let lock away the half of him that would never let himself be near her. He has to bolt tightly in a cage the last essence of a hunter, because only a monster would want to see her writhe in his hands and be under his mouth. To soothe an emptiness, with something that does not deserve to sheathe itself inside her.

Reid pulls back so he is knelt on the bed, a whisper of a smile as he closes the lid of Pandora's box, allows only the slither of smoke to escape it's cracked opening. He mourn the momentary loss of her hand, but he tugs on the waistband of her jeans, flicking the button loose, before unzipping her free. They're pulled down her legs and dropped off the side of the bed. Reid's go next, lifts one knee at a time to wrestle them out from under him, belt pulled from loops, button, zipper. Floor. His eyes fall down to her thighs, hands snake up and linger at her hips.

He slowly nudges her leg to the side with his knee as he leans back down over her. Too much quiet, too long lost in the mind of how he'd almost killed Anika not an hour ago. And now they're here. Is it comforting, to think that he's seen her parade around a smouldering apartment almost like this, in one of his shirts. That he's noticed when she's caught a look at him, walking from his room to the kitchen in the morning in just his underwear, to burn a pot of coffee.

It's probably the smoke of his insides that has him asking quietly. She accepts that he's not the same. It provokes a fraction of a tease that comes with a lawless smile, less sad against her mouth: "Still here?"

His arms felt safe and warm, wrapping around her like a cardigan during winter, melting all the frost from her skin, melting the ice on her heart, melting her into soft goo against him — melting, melting — like honey left too long in the sun, dripping into the hollow of his mouth, lips on hers, sweet and soft. They’d stripped away every mistake, every word that had only ever hurt, until there was nothing but bare truth — hearts fragile and trembling, held out in open palms, offered up for the other to see. They've become what monsters turned into, when someone kissed the ugliest parts of them and waited for the cracks to close. Monsters turned men, not through redemption, but through love. They've shredded clothes too, where his shirt joined hers shortly after in a pile on the sticky motel floor. She felt stupidly helpless when there was nothing left to do but tug at the fabrics of their jeans, still between them, frustration coiling under her skin until she nudged him, wordless, pleading. Feverish kisses shaped her need, as little sounds slipped out — whines too small, letting him know she needed the help. Anika wouldn't ask for it, not out loud. But her body spoke for her; the way she moved against him, legs coming to wrap around his waist. He knew. He always knew. Even in that dark apartment, when they barely spoke, he'd looked at her like he'd always known what was running through her mind. Caught his eyes staring, when he thought she wasn't looking.

Half-lidded mossy hues fixated on the familiar blue, eyes she was falling for— "I know who you are, and I’m not gonna run." A slow shift propped her on pointy elbows dipping into the motel mattress, "Hey—" voice gentle, and soothing eased past kiss swollen lips, hands reaching for his face, where she was reminded only one of them could touch him, have dainty fingers feel him; the highs of his cheeks, the stubble that’s grown longer, that glossed lower lip— "I’m not running. I'm right here."

He didn’t trust her still, not after what she’s done, not after months of separation, coming in and out of a nightmare for the briefest gulp of air. Eyes dipped down to her hands. Her stump hovered somewhere beneath his jaw, in a desperate, fucking stupid attempt to touch him. And it came up short, of course, but some days she swore she still felt the hand there. When she closed her eyes and let herself feel something other than rage and grief, or when his mouth brought her comfort, she could almost forget what she's lost. Was it fucking off putting? She wouldn't know. Didn't think about it until now. Barely owned a mirror that wasn't cracked. Never really cared if anyone found her attractive. A face was just a face, and men would stare at anything with a decent ass. "We can stop—" a quiet sound, and then a vague gesture with her chin, "—if this is a problem, or something."

[reidhalstead]

The protest dies on her tongue. Reid doesn't have another choice. He's burned down his home, months ago. And this is not something he can thrust upon Booker, in her motel room. Halstead considers Aria, for a moment, pulling on the odd friendship — kinship, maybe but cannot bear the thought of explaining the Halstead family's dark legacy to her. Maybe she'll take a fucking picture of the house or something.

So Rose, who will loathe him even more than she already does, is the best he's got. Lis might not like it, but she'd been the catalyst to the whole thing.

Reid didn't exactly like that either. Tough love.

He wonders how deeply the compulsion he left his sister with runs. How under threat she might feel to see her brother at her door, covered in his sister's blood. He can barely remember, in the flood of all the things he'd done, what afterthought she has about monsters. Reid hadn't planned for an apology to go this way, but Lis had forced his hand. Baby sisters always do.

So he doesn't ask for an invitation. His mother had refused him one up to her dying breath. Given her life, in bitterness to what he'd become. (How can he really blame her?) But he'd been doing it for Lis. Their parents should have weighed that with more importance than spite him at the doorway. Reid won't stomach endless refusals from a sister, he'd merely hand Lis over like cargo and guard the apartment from the corridor like an animal, if that's what he needed to do. But Belle invites him in, like it costs her nothing. Remind him how fucking simple that magic is.

There's no argument, just him entering, skirting past Belle and laying Lis down on the couch. He peers down at her, assessing the gravitas of the night; they're dead at shared sibling hands; Lis is drowning in vampiric blood. And he can't afford lose anyone else tonight.

He gives Rose his attention with a swift turn of his head, arms folding across his chest. "We're fine, Belle." Grand stretch of the truth. But there's a bite in his sister's eyes that he's not seen in a long time; demanding. Reid's lip quirks, offering her a similar sharp gaze. "She's healing. Just keep an eye on her for a minute," He expects her to know what that translates too; don't let her die. "I need to make a call."

@devilsvenom / @rosexhalstead

He's telling her that he murdered her, he ended their mothers life; she doesn't know whether to believe him or not. Right now Annalise doesn't have the power to think about it, to argue with him and not just take him at his word. Even just a few months ago, she would never have even had the thought that her brother would lie to her, but she also wouldn't have believed that he would turn off his humanity, compel one sister and shoot the other.

She didn't argue, though. She didn't question it. It had already gone in one ear and out the other, unable to focus on much aside from wanting to see her mother herself. Instead she's pulled into her arms without the will to fight back much more than vain attempts to push herself back away from him. It's clear to Annalise that she isn't getting out of Reid's grip, so she lets her big brother haul her away.

Unable to pay attention to the world around her, to discern where she's been taken, the youngest Halstead just lets it happen. Clothes stick to her like glue where they've covered with a mixture of her own and her fathers blood. It felt sickening as it grew cold against her skin, sending goosebumps racing over her flesh and shivers down her spine. They stopped, and Annalise finally let herself get her bearings. Rose. No, no why would he bring her here? They would have to tell their sister what happened, she wouldn't let either of them in and she would certainly never forgive Lis. All that work they'd done recently, down the drain.

Lis had to tell herself that it needed to be done, had to remind herself what they were planning to do and the consequences of letting them live. It was them or Reid, and she wouldn't let the world tear her big brother away from her again; the big brother who, even despite long absence had been more of a father to her than their father ever had been. He protected her, cared for her, and cared for them for the who they are, not the vision of a killing machine that was in their fathers head.

"Reid, no—"

She tried to turn away from him, from the front door of Rose's home; tried to pull away and free herself so that she could go back to her own place but his grip was strong and he had already knocked, the door opening to the horrifying sight of the youngest and oldest Halstead siblings splattered and smeared with blood. @rosexhalstead

[reidhalstead]

"Yeah." He can't know the details, or the depth exactly as Cam does. He imagines they're all a bit different. But he knows the practice it took to dim down once sense at a time. "Take it slow, it'll drive you mad listening to the waterworks in the walls." Reid supposes it's supposed to be funny, despite the circumstances. Not funny.

Not at all, when Reid thinks about what comes next. He'd calculated it in his head. The possibility Cam would wake up, when his wounds started healing. Thought about how he was going to get McCormick to feed. Drag a person in. Find a bag. Send him into the city like a coyote on the prowl. What the hell does he do to convince a hunter to turn into a monster?

Cam's an artist. All that perfectionist bull that Reid never took seriously about him. And he's never been as good with tying knots as the other man, but he can hear the struggle of a person in the other room. He'll figure it out, when the hunger kicks in, sandpapering his mouth and Reid has his answer. "When you focus on one sense, it's easier to dull down the rest of them. I usually go for visibility, easier to see." a beat, to confess. "McCormick I — I hadn't wanted to do this to you." I wished you hadn't pushed.

The gasp is raw and unnecessary in his throat, scratching it's way upwards through the hunger that burns at him from the inside out. The first thing Cam sees is a painting of Elyse, half-finished but still hanging on the wall as a statement piece. The second is Reid. His fucking sire.

He sits up slowly, rubbing at the healed over wound in his chest, and listens - taking in all the sights and smells and sounds around him. "It's.. so much. Is this what it's like for you?"

[reidhalstead]

Reid files the names away like there's never been anything more important than this. He knows the bookstore. Can't recall visiting. But he's walked past it a hundred times at least. Driven past it even more. Book's either fine with Reid running headfirst into the lion's den, or he has more faith in a dead man to make dust of monsters than he'd ever believed. He doesn't need to know how the French work, but the dramatics of mutilating woman, and turning hunters has his teeth on edge. It sounds so much like his dramatic Sire, minus the fucking French of it all.

But it still feels dirty giving Anika up, even if it is to her father. He has to trust Book's never approaching her with his hunger still raw and unchecked. This cannot be a death sentence, and if he hesitates too long, imagining that Book's her executioner because his fatherhood overruled his monsterhood, he'll never give over the information. And instead, he'll make sure they both meet the sun.

"Lighthouse Motel, off I-5 towards Portland. Room twenty-two."

The longer he stares at a once-great hunter, the more the tells show; Book shouldn't be this. He's not built that way. Reid hadn't been either; his sisters are the daughter that Book's enduring for. The cracks widening in their impenetrable armour. Reid had seen the threat of it, before, in a dingy alleyway when the hunter had caught him running. When he'd looked at Reid full of grief, and understood what duty looked like. When instead of a bullet to the heart, he'd been provided an ultimatum as a form of hunter mercy. Reid's yet to deliver on it.

Maybe this is how he does.

Reid remembers telling Book he hadn't switched sides just because he'd died. That he were raised with hunter morals that wouldn't bend. Adamant not to be a turncoat. He doesn't know how much truth is left in that statement, because he sees more than monsters now. He drinks like them, thinks like them, feels nothing like they do when he can't stomach the guilt. And yet, he still desires plenty of them dead.

"You talked to Valka?" Heron? And he wonders how that would go. If Valka's stronger than the pair of them. Not chit chat, just the Boston-style fuck off. Before making ashes into tattoo ink.

For a moment, when his old mentor speaks, Halstead doesn't know what he's talking about. There's something he's supposed to read between the lines, and can't. Not straight off the bat, anyhow.

"You survived, monster or not." Reid's not sure if the pause he gives is enough that he's locking away the hurt, in the carefully contained mess of his humanity. But even in death, it means something. But they aren't men to linger on softness, or heavy hearts that they know cloud their judgements. "Careful Book, you almost sound sentimental, man."

But he can't play off all of it because there's something else.

Book you fucker, is this goodbye? He's going to meet the sun? All that bullshit sounds like a poetic way to say he can't stomach the bears, or the blood. Reid's teeth cut his lower lip when he wrestles with a moment of annoyance. Better that, than acknowledge the pain of the reality that Book's really going to do it. His lip heals as fast as it comes, but he tries to understand. Tries. (Though, he does. Because Reid knows all he's done in death and has racked up more self-hatred, than anyone will ever know)

Death can be a kindness.

Reid downs his beer, pushes it away, flags for something stronger. Then, catches the bartenders eye, and asks for the bottle.

"You got plenty of years now to fix all that." Whatever mistakes that haunt him. Reid can't say he won't attempt to reason with the old hunter. But then, it hits him, like a hot pan searing his chest. He swivels back to Book. Reid's been on a roll with his selfish streak. He isn't going to stop on account of him. "Don't do what I think you're thinking. If not for me. For her. Don't do that to her."

He can see the fury in him. Good. He'll need that if he's going to do what Book couldn't for all of these years. If his harebrained scheme works and he manages to take the bitch and himself out in one fell swoop, maybe it'll end. But vampires have long lives and even longer memories. Chances are, it'll invite a veritable shitstorm onto his daughter and someone better than him needs to watch her back.

"Narcisse Le Blanc." He doesn't even bother to hesitate before he says her name. "And her wife, Aoife O'Sullivan. She owns that fancy-pants bookstore with the first editions." A nice enough place and full of expensive and flammable things, including its proprietor. "They're old and clever and one of 'em's French so that's why all the dramatics." He doesn't really care what Reid does with this information, and he has no reason to hide it from him anymore. The match was already lit, so better to arm him with as much information that could be helpful.

He pins Reid with a long look. If his emotions are half as volatile as Book's, he can imagine that Reid has some sort of idiot scheme, but he's trusting the kid with the most precious person in his world. "Tell me where she is. Deal's a deal." He wonders if he should tell him something else, something meaningful like it would change anything that will happen. Wonders if his words are worth anything at this point to him, or if he's grown past them too. "Could'a died wherever you were. Could'a let yourself wither away but you didn't. Maybe that makes you a monster, maybe it just makes you a survivor. Sometimes those things ain't mutually exclusive. Some things are worth surviving for, no matter the price."

Reid has a chance to be a better version of him, and he hopes he takes it. Book's too old for this game, too deep in his ways to ever find any kind of peace with the turn his life has taken, but maybe the kid's got a reason to do it differently. "Maybe you can avoid my mistakes."

[reidhalstead]

REID , NSILO , TOMÁS , AJ , TETSUYA , GARRICK

IN-DEPTH HEADCANON QUESTIONS * collection #2

how does your muse get local news and updates on current events? are they up to date with all the latest goings-on or do they prefer to avoid it altogether?

did your muse grow up with any particular television shows? do they have a favorite, or a memory tied to these shows?

how much effort does your muse put into their costume for halloween parties and other dress-up events? do they have any go-to costumes?

does your muse stay up to date with the latest fashion trends? describe their style. where do they typically buy their clothes?

who was their first celebrity crush?

what would your muse's bio say if they were on a dating app?

what kind of phone does your muse have, and how customized is it? does it have a basic case or something more unique? is the screen cracked? do they have a popsocket or other accessories on it?

who was the one family member your muse always looked up to, if any?

if your muse drives a car, have they personalized it in any way (bumper stickers, things hanging from the rearview mirror, etc.)?

if given a choice between having a night in or spending the night out on the town, which would they most likely choose and why?

what are your muse's favorite scents, and what do they associate them with?

what kind of shopper is your muse? are they a slow, methodical shopper, a list-maker, or a grab the items and go kind of person? how long do they usually spend getting their groceries? how long do they spend clothes shopping? do they use changing rooms?

if something bad happens, who will your muse call first?

what social cause is your muse most passionate about and why?

if your muse was made into an action figure, what would their five catchphrases be?

what are your muse's biggest fears, and what caused them?

what's the one thing your muse constantly does and wishes they could stop doing?

does your muse know how to fight? describe their fighting style. if someone was threatening them and about to attack, how would they respond?

will your muse eat at fast food restaurants? if they're on a time crunch, what type of food will they grab?

did your muse's parents pass down any quirks or habits that your muse now does? what are they?

does you muse like road trips, or would they prefer to fly in a plane?

what are their thoughts on roadside attractions and tourist traps? when visiting new cities, do they prefer to see the most popular sites, or pretend to be a local and blend in?

what does your muse's bedroom look like? is it cluttered or clean? do they use the overhead lighting, or use lamps and other things to provide a better ambience? do they make their bed every morning or leave it unmade?

is your muse a 'this is a really nice box, i should save it' kind of person, or do they tend to throw things out no matter what?

[reidhalstead]

Bail? When there's blood permeating the air and igniting senses; a pilot flame that's just had the gas fed into it. Hues slide in her direction, noting her concern like it's merely a suggestion. Reid looks past her, to the camera posted in the corner of the dive. There's a red light lit bright; might not be fake, might need smashing to fucking bits.

He'll consider that problem later.

The bar does them a favour by breaking out into a mess of fists, and targeted lunges. It's laughable. The two of them watch the struggle breakout: "What if there's no witnesses, Millie?"

What if there's a feast? He did work up an appetite.

He only has to take one step forwards, to be the thing between the shotgun barrel and Millie. He doesn't turn back to her, when he's staring down the bartender from across the bar. Reid doesn't raise his hands, just gauges the severity of the guy about to blow a hole in him. Halstead speaks quietly, because he's going to make a mess: "You quick, wolf?"

There will be a problem, if she isn't.

"Block the door."

And then, he moves as his own, more dangerous bullet. A fleeting shadow that flashes to the bartender at the same moment a gunshot explodes throughout the bar. There's a yell, and then a tear.

Millie turns, the weird little gnome scared off until he backs into a table and nearly falls over it before going to try and pick one of his friends up.

She turns to Jacket-Guy then, who's just shanked a motherfucker with a busted pool cue, and she realizes that maybe this is bad, and that maybe there will be cops. And if Millie hates one thing more than mouthy, likely racist booze hounds who like to throw hits at women, it's cops. Because cops are all that, plus cops.

"Uhhh... I think maybe we oughta bail, Brett." She says, looking around at all the waylaid devastation. "I think maybe we might be legally culpatatable here."

There's a scramble then; the scuffle turning into a right proper brawl and sending people away like little ants, and then she hears a shicka-clack and there's a dude behind the bar with a shot gun pointed at both of them. Millie can't speak for Jacket-Guy, of course, but guns aren't good for her, so her hands go up. "Uh... he started it." She points at one of the downed guys with an un-tied work boot so she don't have to put her hands down.

[reidhalstead]

There's a quick, tight-pulled smile that's practically sarcastic. Evasive, is not what he's trying for. Impassive, maybe. But she didn't appear deterred by the detail. Reid hadn't thought about their car. He's not even sure he knows what they drive anymore; never given it a thought.

His lip dips, along with his brows.

"Didn't know Kanta was so popular," There's a queue for them? Ha. They've always been fixated on the hunt, given Reid more than a schooling once or twice on the morality and fixation of it all. Reid's put him to the floor for it. Shah's and Halstead's had different views, but they'd found their middle ground, before.

Maybe not on their last encounter. But, before.

He watches her enter the laundromat, doesn't hear a peep from within. No gentle rumble of machinery; the hum of electricity usually makes a lull. Everything's off. Are they closed? Reid didn't know landromat's had opening hours. Weren't they just an all-hours affair? His eyes flicker back to her when she suggests he walks in, uninvited or not. She knows. Therefore, she's something else. And he'd missed the scent the first time, beneath the aroma of rosemary and sage; she reeks of every herbal store he's ever walked past. It's only when she moves, that it catches on the air.

Kanta wouldn't want him inside, whether he could enter or not.

Shrugging it off, he murmurs: "I'm just leaving."

He's about to walk off, because his moment had been stolen by the newcomer. But he still notes how fast she moves, disappearing inside the laundromat all sudden and eager. The door closes behind her, and it's only when he steps off the sidewalk, flicking his cigarette to the ground that he takes pause. A slow pivot as the door shutters closed, he's turning a one-eighty back to Washtub, lip curling up. Confusion clouds his vision as fast as realisation does.

There's blood.

“Ok Mr. Evasive.” Thera beamed, nothing, not even a surly vampire, was going to put a damper on her good mood.

The hurricane had been long and hard and Thera had found the areas in the community where she could help. But this evening she finally had time for herself. Time for them.

“I didn’t want to push in, Thera stared into the dark laundromat and then glanced back out onto the street. “It is weird that their car is still here though.”

She looked back in the building. “Huh,” she pushed open the front door to the laundromat and immediately didn’t like how quiet it was. No machines were moving, there was no music coming out of the speaker system, the whole store was quiet. She wasn’t going to let her company know that have her pause.

“You might be able to come in the storefront, it’s a public place.” She said without looking at the man. As she pressed in she ran a finger along the wall. A slight whisper of her magic. Magic she had sent to Kanta was still laced in the walls, and as she drew her finger along it she checked for… a knot. There was a knot coming from the basement.

The smile had fallen. Something was wrong. Her steps sped up, the other party currently slipped from her mind but the guilt in his thread not forgotten.

// @reidhalstead

[reidhalstead]

For: @declanofruin

Early April, 2025

The lucky cat has been a frequent pit stop for the last couple of weeks. Not for him. But for someone who forgets to eat, and he cannot stand to be inside that motel room when the sun is down. Claustrophobic, trapped as every wall closes in on him, the same way the pit of concrete had for the months he'd been chained down there.

This place isn't much better, but there's life here. And it keeps him from lashing out.

When he orders a Kung Pao, and sits. He spends too long staring at the obscurity that sits hanging on the wall; a picture printed of various colours, and shades. Abstract? He's got an artist at the motel, who refuses to ... art. But he follows the endlessly obscure paths of the waves and the oranges, blues and the like as they travel up and down a canvas. Odd in the lucky cat, maybe. But what does Halstead know about art?

A familiar tuft of hair passes him outside the window, and he stands. Instantly on alert, wonders if he's about to make a stop inside the same restaurant Reid is waiting for his order in. Shit. He doesn't know if he wants to see Cam, or if there's not going to be a mercy twice.

Speaking of artists and devils, and thou shall appear.

Reid can't ignore him, he's one of the few that doesn't know his monstrosities over the last month. An innocent party (as far as they come) in the wake of it all. A friend in the dark. Brotherhood, or no.

As he stands, he decides he cannot pretend they aren't going to see each other when the door jingles open. Best believe that he's being the friendly party. Cameron kept his secret, all these months. There has to be some kind of innate brotherhood, buried deep. Even after Reid had put teeth on a... friend, or a girlfriend? Maybe she didn't snitch about that. Maybe she did. But they're in public too. This isn't the Scrapyard where there's no witnesses to their bloodied extracurriculars. Reid moves to nudge him; a hand clasps an arm before it gets to far: "McCormick..."

[reidhalstead]

For: @huntercam

Mid April, after Cam's transition.

"—You know what's happened."

Reid sits, because he know Cam does. It hits a man moments after awakening; that clawing of a beast desperate to scratch the inside of a throat, begging for freedom or to be fed. It's jarring and agonising. It'll have every painting in the wall of Exquis laughing at him. They know. We know. You know.

There's no beating heart in their chests. They're mirrors of each other now. Sire. Protégé. Hunters made monsters. Maybe they always were.

"Don't move too quickly, it's... different. Just look around slowly, okay?"

[reidhalstead]

For: @anikabooker

Mid April, following Cam McCormick's death.

He's spent the night with a newly-made monster. A hunter he's torn from the ranks the same way he had been. Mercilessly, uncontrollably. Accidentally. Reid's navigating that as much as he's been trimming edges off the grief he's had to balance given Cam's new status. When he'd woken up, and they'd had that conversation. Reid had only felt like the world he'd known before was crumbling down around him. Brick and mortar crashing to the ground, and exploding like grenades, clouding his vision in dust and debris.

He'd been blind to the idea that Cam would be anything but as angry as he had been, when Reid had become this, almost eight years ago now.

Cam had been anything but what Reid had expected.

He can only hope that in his absence, McCormick will stand to stomach his new urges and staunch how easily he can get heightened with new-to-control senses. Cam's a quick study and that works in his favour. Halstead thinks he stands a better chance of Cam gaining a grip on his abilities, than what awaits him as he returns to the Lighthouse Motel at the edge of the city. He plans to face a woman who is less forgiving than death is.

Reid doesn't know where else to go when he's hurting. Still exhausted, despite filling a hunger with an old friend who has become his protégé. He'd never wanted that for anyone. Least of all, a friend. He'd only just found a way to make peace with Anika, spending his nights with her at the motel and his days trapped in the box of it all. Making amends, and attempting to alleviate the weight of his sins.

If he thought it would mean a dime, he'd kneel at a church altar. But he's never been a religious man; from a family who entertained holidays, not for belief, but for familial time. Even less so in the wake of monsters.

Reid's hand knocks on the motel room door. He doesn't let himself in because it doesn't feel like he should be welcome. Not covered in blood, still. Wearing the weight of what he'd done to a friend the previous night, looming in the dark of his eyes. How does he tell her? That he's more monster than she'll ever want to stomach. The last month of their reparations, shredded to pieces, when she knows what he's capable of.

[reidhalstead]

It doesn't feel all that long ago that Reid had stained the concrete outside of Washtub with red. The first time, it'd been coincidence. This time, he means to be here. A cigarette tucked between fingers whilst he figures out a way to shout through the doorway which Kanta has made sure he cannot cross. He wants to make amends with a brother who he'd antagonised in his less savoury of eras. He wants to show his face, without baring teeth. He's trying to repair things, before he is only dust. Between a fritzing dimmer switch of some days being easier than others; he's attempting to accept that guilt, in tiny, fragmented pieces as they escape the lockbox of his emotions.

It'll either eventually overwhelm and destroy him. Knowing everything he's done; the lives he wears like badges of dishonour or he will grow to live with the self-hatred, just for a little while longer.

He's yet to see them, or hear them from within the Laundromat. Shah hasn't wandered between machines in the last thirty minutes Reid's been propped up outside. It'd make more sense to call them, but that isn't how they work. At least, that's now how Reid imagines they would; something more primal between them, face to face, bloodied teeth and frenzied eyes.

He doesn't immediately pay mind to the woman who approaches. There's not been many, if any, customers paying for their laundry tonight. Reid glances up though, when it's clear she's talking to him, plucks the straight out of his mouth and blows the smoke in the opposite direction, away from her.

He doesn't know a Thera.

"Or I'm just smoking." he answers, but there's no bite, or jab to the tone. It's met with a half smile; a forced yet kinder smirk. Halstead's gaze flickers down at the hand she's offering out to him. She wouldn't dare touch it, if she knew the blood that those hands have spilt. "What do you want with them? A laundromat doesn't need an appointment, just walk in."

A walk with Thera

Featuring guests @reidhalstead @juniperscauldron & @cutthroat-service

When: Late May 22

She’s almost skipping. In their five years as….. well whatever they were, this is the first time Kanta has ever asked her to come to them.

Sure half of that could be chalked up to Thera’s ‘unusual’ methods of communication but that didn’t make this any less exciting. They wanted to see her. All her mistakes, all her anxiety, all her misgivings, and they might still want *her*. That plus what she had seen from the Revelrie Witch. Thera had hope. Hope that hadn’t existed before.

As Washtub neared on the horizon, she saw a blonde man pacing in front of its doors. He must be waiting for her hunter too.

She didn’t expect Kanta to be there at all times of day, but she had kinda hoped that in this case that Fate might have favoured her. No matter though, she had come to accept this offer in person, and she would wait till they were back to do so.

As Thera situated herself on the wall of washtub she took in the other man. His line was crimson tinted, - vampire, ‘another monster’. She almost laughed, for someone who had always been so structured about their association with the species they hunted, Kanta had still enticed two of those hunted to his doorstep.

She turned her infectious smile on the pacing man, “Hi I suspect we are both waiting for Kanta,” she extended her hand, “my name’s Thera. What’s yours?”

// @reidhalstead

[reidhalstead]

IF I ONLY COULD, I'D MAKE A DEAL WITH GOD, I'D GET HIM TO SWAP OUR PLACES.

credit: King, for the amazing graphics !! ( ty, King! ) mentions: @reidhalstead, @rosexhalstead

What if you could dull your tragedies? Would you take that shot, and dull the pain? What if Reid Halstead and Annalise Halstead could swap fates? Reverse what happened almost a decade ago, and instead have a reckless youngest sibling who mistakenly thinks she's ready to sneak out on a hunt. She would be the one who is taken by vampires, believed dead by her family.

At least they would still have their golden boy to hold them together.

The glue that they needed to remain a family, to stay a united front, to protect one another instead of being their undoing, the moment that would eventually lead to the downfall of the Halstead's. Red symbolises anger, blood, rage, danger, fire. Gold symbolises power, wisdom, divinity, wealth. Which one would you rather lose?

Annalise thinks about it often, more so in the past year than she had done her entire life. She wonders what life would be like for her family, for her siblings, if instead she was the one who 'died' instead of Reid. She can imagine it, almost clear as day. They would have grieved for her, they would have been upset, she was sure but… Truly, she doesn't believe that her death would have sent such violent shockwaves through the Halstead family like Reid's did.

Her family would've moved past it. They would have honoured her birthday when it passed each year, remembered her during holidays, but in time the wound left by grief would have slowly stitched itself shut, or at least had a makeshift graft stitched over it. The Halstead parents never began that journey to healing after Reid; how can you heal from grief when all that is in your mind is hatred? The focus instead on killing those that took away the eldest child, and not on healing themselves or helping their daughters through their grief and healing journey.

Reid's death caused their parents to not trust themselves, and more importantly to not trust their remaining children with the responsibility of being Hunters, of carrying that family legacy. They second guessed everything and came to the very quick and rash decision to outright forbid the daughters to continue their training. If she had died, they would have fought harder. Would have pushed Reid harder, in the face of adversity.

"You've seen what's at stake now, what we stand to lose." She could almost hear her father speak to Reid and Rose. "This is why we fight; to protect those we love, and those who cannot win these fights for themselves. Let your sister be a reminder of what you're fighting for."

They trusted Reid with the hunt, with the knowledge, and they would continue to entrust him to help them impart that knowledge onto Rose and make sure her training was kept up to a high enough standard to keep her, and whoever was fighting alongside her, safe. In her mind, they carry on fighting so that no one else has to lose their youngest daughter, or their youngest sibling. Annalise knows that the trust they would have imparted upon Reid did not exist for Rose and Annalise at the time. They weren't ready to be trusted, they weren't good enough, they weren't golden. So Annalise turned red, and Rose wilted and retreated to a human life.

Annalise wonders what Rose's life would have been like. Maybe she would have still left hunting, gone to the human world, but perhaps it would have been when she was just that much more prepared to deal with the creatures that go bump in the night if she needed to, and more proactive with her own protection against them. The youngest can't help but wonder if it was her instead of him, would Rose have been better off? She thinks about the traumas that she knows of within her sister, and always comes to the same conclusion; Rose most likely would have been in a better place than she is now if the family home had remained stable, strong, and united. If they remained a family who loved each other deeply, and always looked out for one another no matter what. That connection, the deep seated bond between them, would it have been what she needed to heal, even if it was just enough that she never thought about taking her own life? Annalise truly believed so.

Perhaps Reid would be the angry one, if roles were reversed, but their parents would teach him that wasn't the way. It couldn't be the way. They would remind him that they hunted to protect those that couldn't protect themselves, and whilst anger was a valid emotion, he couldn't use that to fuel himself; it wasn't sustainable. They would care about their golden boys health, both physical and mental. They would steer him back to the right path if he ever veered off track. They would do the same for Rose, even if she chose to walk away. They would likely even learn to respect it and see it as a response to losing a sibling, and not being able to go through losing anyone else like that.

When you lay in bed unable to move, feeling like your soul has been removed from your body and discarded so carelessly you could never hope to find it again, you have a lot of time to think about these things. To think about what life would be like, if key points were different. Annalise is sure her parents would appreciate it more, if the roles were reversed. For one, they wouldn't be dead at the hands of their own daughter. Reid may have been the one to twist the knife that killed their father, but Annalise started the motion of events; she was responsible, even if the last actions that killed the Halstead's parents weren't her own.

Their parents would have been different, they would have been better.

They would protect both remaining siblings, with all that they had, if Annalise had died that night instead of Reid.

They would remain a family, united and sacred, if Annalise had died that night instead of Reid.

They would all be happy, if Annalise had died that night. . . instead of Reid.

[reidhalstead]

"Your obsession with my sister is really something," Reid titters, because what does he care about Annalise and her forgiveness? What will Nolan care with a broken jaw and slack, loose movements with barely comprehensible speech? There is nothing but the slither of enjoyment of seeing Thatcher like this that stops him from slamming a boot down on his face, an ending the guy entirely.

He's got enough of what he came here for in his pocket, there's nothing more he needs from a snivelling piece of meat on the floor. Reid's face still burns, feels too warm where the verbena threatens to leave scars across his neck, ear and cheek. It's irritating as told by the twitch in Reid's face.

It didn't have to end so messily. Nolan had done this to himself.

There's a careless roll of his eyes as he stays crouched a little longer beside the flailing man. "Just die already, Thatcher." It'd be more dignified. Less weak. Reid's all teeth when he spits at Nolan: "I even took the pain away for you, I made it easy."

Not everyone gets that.

Then, with a sigh, he stands. Leaving the man grappling for his senses on the ground. There's no looking back when he lets the office door click shut. Pads down the stairwell, and brushes past bloodthirsty patrons shouting for a fight. He almost debates stopping for a bite, but instead goes straight for the door; he has somewhere else he likes to hunt and it's not on Thatcher's fucking doorstep.

Gael. Where the fuck are you? Nolan's mind immediately goes to the vampire, who would surely hear the commotion in the office if he was fucking paying attention. Nolan moved to push himself up onto his feet, only to stumble as he'd placed the injured hand on the ground. Fuck. He hissed as the pain shot through his hand and up his arm. Nolan needed to get ahold of him. Him or Kali. Eleanor, even. Fucking someone that could help him in this situation.

But he's being tackled now, shoved back into the floor with a grunt. Nolan struggles against Reid, trying to get out from underneath him as if he can. His nostrils flared as the spray bottle was torn from his fingers. Even if Reid used it on him, it wouldn't do much. "Can't take the fucking pain, Halstead?" Nolan sneered before his mouth was suddenly grabbed. Nolan fought with his good hand, swinging his fist at Reid but he didn't have enough leverage to do any real damage.

Nolan shouted as Reid used the rest of the bottle, spraying it into his mouth. While it didn't cause pain inside of his mouth, it tasted awful. Saliva accumulated in his mouth, dripping at the corners as Reid shoved the bottle into his mouth. Nolan gagged as he tried to gain control of his mouth again but it was futile. Not only could he feel pain blooming in his jaw, but he could hear the cracking and popping.

Then the pressure is gone and Nolan immediately opened his mouth and retrieved the cylinder. He threw it across the room as he coughed, flinching at the pain that shot through his skull. "Fucking psychotic." Nolan breathed, laughter bubbling in his chest for a brief moment. Reid -- this Reid -- was one that he didn't know. Not really. And if Nolan wasn't fighting for his own fucking survival, he might have found it even more amusing.

Dizziness swept over his mind, the pain from his hand and his head suddenly all consuming. Nolan blinked once, twice, wondering if someone was walking up the stairs in that moment. If Gael was finally going to check on him. But then he was pulled from that thought as he felt the pinch of a needle sink into his own skin.

"No." Nolan's voice was hoarse from the verbena. His struggle to get the syringe away from him was a few seconds too late. Reid had already forced the sedative into Nolan's body and it would only be a small amount of time before it kicked in. It was ironic that the substance that Nolan used to help him in his own business was about to not only wreak havoc on his body, but force his own organs to shut down.

He was going to fucking die.

"You're the fucking pathetic one." Nolan managed to get out as his muscles began to relax. "Annalise will never fucking forgive you." If she found out it was Reid that killed him.

[reidhalstead]

When she drinks, Reid cannot explain the virulence he feels of how he's put himself in this position again. Another person under the threat of the poison that is his blood. The emptiness in the recently deceased eyes cannot haunt him the same way this act of bloodletting does. She doesn't fight him. She's in no position to fight him. No room for hatred about burying a bullet in her leg, or for putting a knife in their father's spine. For watching their mother die, when he could have found another way.

He'll lie to her on this, because it does not need to be hers to bear.

He's faster, even if Lis' hunter instincts have her launching from the ground and desperate to see the aftermath of a bloodstained home. It hadn't been Reid's home in years, but he knows his baby sister has yet to mourn for this part of their family.

Reid pulls her back, and tells her what she needs to believe happened. He's cold, but he tries to keep his voice soft, so she'll listen.

"She wouldn't invite me in Lis," But that's not news, it just needs to stand as the gravitas of the detail Reid's going to tell her. "I needed to get to you and she was in my way." If she asked, he'd say he threw something sharp across the threshold, blunt, soft whatever she needed to hear for her to understand that her stairway fall cannot be on her shoulders. Not when he sees his sister screaming for a mother that will no longer hear her. For a father who had once been a great leader, merely broken by grief. Reid understands that. But he's the only Halstead cowardly enough to abuse a switch inside of him, to turn that off.

In its place is a righteous fury he has not felt in a while. Why did you do it Lis? He doesn't understand why now, of all times, to come home and reap her perverse version of justice. Hunters don't kill hunters. They're better; they have to be, otherwise what is the point of them at all? Another power that chases for more than they are, when they had always been a shield for those who could not protect themselves.

Reid isn't sure that'll ever be his mantra again, because he knows monsters on a deeper level. Calls some of them friends, allies in ways that he's never envisioned. He's made a monster, in an old friend. He knows both those who deserve to be nothing but bones, as much as those who may be spared that kind of end.

He pulls Lis into his arms, wraps them tightly around her so she might not fight him too hard. Scrambling in his arms and shouting profanity at him is better than hearing her scream and sob beside their mother's body.

"We can't stay here."

And she doesn't get to argue when he hauls her away from the Halstead home.

Her heart thumped so loud that her ears filled with its echo, unable to focus on any sound other than that and the worsening rattling as her collapsing lung struggled to inflate. She strained, trying to hear Reid, to see if she had heard right. She had to finish this, before her mother invited him in and he was trying to stop her.

The knife in shaking hand pressed deeper, drops of blood instead of beads of it gathering now; still she couldn't find the strength to slice her fathers throat opened. Annalise had imagined it so many times before, and in her imagination it had always been easy, quick even. Now she felt like a child playing the broken soldier, one that couldn't finish the job.

It felt like hours had passed in that moment, with them both hanging onto life. A scream brings her back to reality, though her mind couldn't fathom what would elicit such a thing. Her mother dying was not an option her brain had comprehended; she had gone downstairs, invited Reid in and he had healed her. That was how it had to have happened, wasn't it? Her intentions had been focused on her father, always her father - her mother was just like her, she had concluded that a long time ago. Trapped by ideologies and a spiteful man who thought he held all the power, thought he held the Halstead name on his shoulders when all he had ever done was destroy it. He had nothing in this life, and she wanted to make sure that he entered death the same way.

She jumps as she realises Reid is next to her, hand moving to the knife. He was going to stop her. No. No, no, no. She had to finish this; he couldn't be allowed to live. If he was a danger to his own family, he was a danger to anyone that dared to cross his path. He was hunting out of hatred, had taught them with hatred, and if she had learned anything from The Brotherhood it was that you should be hunting because you want to protect, and help those who cannot protect themselves, not out of hatred; that's when you become the very same as the ones you claim to hate. This was the brother that shot her, why should she trust that whatever he was doing was in her best interest? In their best interest?

Yet, she doesn't have the energy to fight, doesn't have the breath to beg Reid to let her do this. Her shaking hands release the weapon upon hearing little hunter from him, vacant eyes looking up to meet his, wide with horror and yet for once devoid of rage. Her mind functioning just enough to recognise that maybe, just maybe, the use of the once beloved nickname meant that Reid was on his way back to them.

The abuse their father is still spitting would have had her snarling, grabbing the knife from Reid and plunging it into her fathers throat if she had the ability to do anything other than focus on the breath she could get into her body from her one functioning lung. She fell back, lacking any form of grace, laying on the floor as she clutched her chest and watched. Eyes flickered from Reid, to the knife, to her father and back again. Please. It had to be finished, this couldn't have been for nothing. If she were to die, then fine, but her father had to join her in hell.

He was looking at her with something in his eyes she couldn't quite place - when was the last time she'd seen her brother look at her like that? It had to be before he was turned, when he was their golden boy. Thoughts of what the Halsteads would be now if it was her taken instead of Reid flashed in her mind. It would have been better for them all, wouldn't it? It would have all been different.

She nodded, encouraging her brother, hoping that through the tears and unspoken words he could decipher the meaning behind her actions. I need this. This needs to happen. For all of our sakes, he needs to die. Delusional, perhaps, but it was the only way she could foresee things eventually being okay. Their father was too proud to ever retire from The Brotherhood, and with his influence people's loved ones were in danger. Her loved ones were in danger. If he could plot to kill Reid with no emotion, who was next? Gael? Gemma? Daniella? The remaining Halstead siblings if something were to happen to them? She couldn't let it happen, Annalise couldn't even let the chance of it happening survive.

Reid tells her to look away with the familiar brotherly assertion, but she doesn't listen. She doesn't look away, watches everything until the knife is poised at the back of their fathers neck. It's almost involuntary when she closes her eyes, she wonders if this is death taking her as she all but sees the confirmation of her fathers end before heavy lids close.

She hears a grunt, the clattering of metal on wood, and footsteps coming towards her. Eyes flutter open weakly, just enough to see her fathers lifeless body and her brother scooping her up in his arms. It isn't until he holds her that she realises how cold she must be if the vampire feels warm to her. The little hunter is shivering, hand still pressed over the wound that she's sure will be her demise. It didn't matter though, not anymore. She could die. She had done what she meant to, protected those she loved even if they wouldn't see it that way. She was ready to die.

He puts her down and offers out his own bloodied wrist, and Annalise hesitates. Swallowing thickly, she thinks for a moment as though she has a moment to spare. The only reason she chooses to drink is for her siblings sake - they may hate her for this, but at least they wouldn't have to suffer through the loss of a father and a sister whilst having so many questions unanswered if she lived. Her time would come, she knew that, perhaps that time wasn't now.

Hands remove themselves from her bleeding wound and wrap around Reid's forearm, bringing it closer to her and holding it there as she drinks. She drinks from him until the wound closes itself, remembering the familiar taste and feeling of vampire blood but this... It wasn't close to what she'd experienced before. Lis supposed it was different, to experience it when it was saving your life and not for your own reckless, selfish wants.

"Mom?" The youngest Halstead questioned, glancing back to the house with furrowed brow. If he had healed her, he would want to keep her close. He would want to make sure nothing happened to her until the blood was out of her system which must mean... It must mean... "No." She whimpered, gasping for breath as her lung slowly stitched up the puncture, her skin slowly pulling itself back together at the seams. "Mommy." Lis sobbed, hands still gripping at Reid with the all the strength she had been missing just a few moments ago when she failed to end her fathers life.

Her lung may be fixing itself thanks to Reid's blood, but she felt like she couldn't breathe. She knew there was a small chance of it happening, but Annalise had hoped that their mother would listen to her. She had been collateral in the young Halstead's cause, and she felt sick thinking about how she'd caused that.

Annalise scrambled to her feet, slowly and without grace, as though testing the waters of her strength to see if she could hold her body upright. One foot forward, then another, and she was stable enough to start off towards the house again. They couldn't leave them there, they had a mess to clean up. They had to go back.

She didn't get far before she felt a tug, something stopping her in her tracks. Brows furrowed as she looked backwards, saw her brother holding her arm, holding her back.

[reidhalstead]

The world spins. Tilts on an axis as he loses himself in the warmth of her skin and her lips. Where hands had traced her in his memory both as something cherished and as something he's hated. She's different now; there are grooves and scars felt underneath fabric, withered muscle and agonising reminders that she is painfully human. He's not sure how he can loathe this or find bitterness in a broken soul as rough hands press unforgivingly into her flesh, lingering too long over that crescent scar at her hip as his thumb ghosts along the ridge.

He notices when Anika's attention moves, a hand that fumbles at herself, an arm that moves in tandem to meet it — a limb that's so coordinated but missing a piece. Her gentle, but concentrated breaths that have his teeth clipping her lower lip, threatening to tug it rather than accept the idea she's pulling away from him. But she isn't, it's just her mind that dips away. Jaws that speak a language without sound. Reaching desperately to find an answer in the other, something right, something that does not shatter this illusion.

Eyes open, peering at the crease in her features as she whispers at him between breaths. Reid stares at her hand briefly, a shirt tugged halfway up, peeled away from blood and grime. He doesn't allow himself too much pause. Not for this. Booker's not someone who asks for help. And perhaps that's all he allows to reach his features; that hardened gaze that challenges her about this action. You don't have to do this. They don't have to. And a monstrous part of him laughs at him for that.

Hands gently move her arms away, he lifts the shirt over her head and tosses it to the ground beside them. It'd been clean, but speckled and stained with reddened fingers. He's seen her like this before, put his mouth against old scars, whilst his eyes here search for new ones. He's threatening the fragility of this moment, but he can't deny her either. Struggles to refuse himself. Easier then, to slip into darkness than it is to scream about everything that's weighing him down; the lives he's taken that are a heavy cloak on his shoulders. So, he finds his way back to her lips, knowing it is selfish. Hands return to exploring bare skin when he reaches beneath her and lifts. They've been here before too. In his arms, pressed together, as lowers her onto the motel bed. Swollen lips that refuse to cease as he crawls between her legs, kneels there and lays her down.

She needs this. Rest. Not to stare at the broken thing that said cruel things because he'd smelted his inhibitions in hellfire. Even if she's doused the heat, he's remembering who he had been, and how he's so far from that now, there's no return.

You can't want this. Him. Her. What he should tell her if his mouth was thinking about anything other than consuming her. Hunger sits carefully underneath it all, waiting to rear its head into an opening. He can't slip. Reid won't. But his hands move to brace either side of her head, keeping him above her as she sinks into the strewn covers of the bed. It feels feverish, but he can't fight the part of his conscience that wars inside of him. It says she can't strip her clothes off and bare herself to him and expect to know what she wants. There's no whiskey here. Just blood, and months gone memories.

"I'm not him, princess." The man she knew. The one she believes she sees as he wrestles with a guilt and a monster that cackles at him for it. Even without a piece of her, she's always going to be Anika. She's more than he'll ever be. They were really always built to lose. He dips for a kiss that feels like any could be the last, nips, like he can't decide if he wants to win or lose anymore. "You know I'm not."

Every inch of her skin called out to him. She didn't think she could let him go, even if she tried. She didn't think her selfish heart would allow it. And the way his hands had gripped her said the same; a language only their limbs seemed to understand, written in breath and touch, quiet in their pleas to be held, to be wanted and loud in their bruising kisses.

She missed him, even when he was right there, chest to chest, and mouth to mouth, wrapped up in each other like veins strangling a lost building. The coldness, that emptiness around her where he used to be, where he should've been, still echoed in her bones. In his absence, the ghost of him had lingered, born of the only emotion she'd ever let herself feel when it came to him — hate.

Hate was what she felt for most things. Anger, rage, bitterness that rotted her from the inside out. It was a weapon, something she sharpened to make tearing through flesh easier. Killing had become second nature, effortless in the hand that held the gun, because nothing good ever lived inside her. Not until he dug up the grave, kissed a corpse on the mouth and something moved inside a dead chest. A heartbeat. A heart that beat for him. Yet, she feared that the heart she had to offer looked a lot like decay.

He tightened his hold on her, maybe because he knew she would run at the first sign of vulnerability, at the sound of walls collapsing, at the sight of want and need sipping through the thickness of her skin. Every tug at her clothes, and every misplaced kiss in places his mouth hadn’t mapped yet, said: don’t go, don’t leave me again, don’t run. And she could feel it in her spine, and in her ribs, in the way she was gripping him just as hard. Anika was now offering too much of herself, and maybe still not enough, where her hand had slit from his neck and found the hem of her shirt. It was a struggle, to pull it off, like everything else was. A basic fucking task that looked so sloppy and stupid. Frustration flushed hot across her cheeks as she fumbled with the fabric, digits tugging stubborn and helpless all at once. she remembered a time when this was easier. Her jaw tightening against the kiss she refused to break.

She didn’t want to ruin the moment. Didn’t want to spoil a good ending — not when it was right here in her hands. Because fuck, did they deserve something good and fragile, and theirs.

Her lips barely parted against his, just enough to let a mutter slip out: "Can you, uh—just… take it off." It sounded smaller than she meant it to. But defeat came easy when his mouth was right there to kiss it away.