GUNPOWDER & LEAD

Frankly, she prefers the nights where they get right down to it. Those nights where the sound of the deadbolt on the front door substitutes the shot fired from a starting pistol and they race to the end of each other with hands and mouths. 

If she has regular sex with someone she can’t stand to talk to does that make her a bad feminist or a very good one? The thought occurs to her as she feels resentment settling as tension in  her jaw and shoulders. 

She smiles tight-lipped, thinking about how pious she is. Maybe that’s a projection. In truth Marion knows feels she knows John F. Kennedy Junior better than she knows Blythe Belanger. 

Projection or not, it doesn’t matter. She lets her self think it; let’s herself seethe  over it. 

Her smile is wry, humorless when she shrugs and let’s her gaze fall down to the freshly exposed expanse of thigh. Let’s herself remember what sliding her hand up and over the hard curve of her bony hip feels like. 

“Well, I was thinking more along the lines of: where there’s suspected arson, there’s the Sheriff’s Department but –” She meets Blythe’s eyes again and offers a shrug. “Sure, that too.”

Another sip of her wine. She doesn’t like wine. She prefers liquor but this is what Blythe drinks and now she wishes that she’d not made that concession. 

Do you think the town would still love her if they know she’d run straight here after the fire? She thinks of asking but she won’t because no matter how angry she might get this is better than driving to Indianapolis once a week. 

More wine. She’ll need to be warmer than this to forget the fire long enough to enjoy herself. When her strap falls this time she doesn’t right it, she just sets farther back into the arm of the couch and brings up a leg so that she can rest her drinking hand on her knee. 

“How is Tex?” That’s some nice neutral ground. They both like dogs.

A snort, almost playful.

“He’s good. Sulking like a little bitch.” Blythe balances her glass, a crescent of dark red clinging to the rim. Her eyes follow the strap of Marion’s dress as it slides down off her shoulder. The skin, she knows, just as velvet-like to the touch as it appears. Were the sight any less lovely, she’d wonder if the other’s doing it on purpose. (Oh, she bets.)

“You’d think he’d appreciate a surprise day off, but no. When I tried to explain why he had to stay behind this morning, his idea of a counterargument was headbutting me.” Though it’s Blythe’s signature matter-of-fact, plus a shrug for emphasis, there’s no helping the slightest flicker of her lips. Blame the mental image of an 85 lb German Shepherd pouting in the corner, ears down, the song of his people echoing at full volume. Toddler.

This she keeps to herself. A mere implication she’s laughing because of Tex and not at him would be more intimate than anything she and Marion might have shared in the past months: more than the long, frantic nights, the colliding teeth, more than even the marks she tells Selena are from hand-to-hand combat classes.

Another gulp, solely to nip that in the bud. 

Under the hazy light that painted everything with a darkened sun, cascading oranges and soot smothered Charles hadn’t had time to find his breath. Each blink threatened to take him there, with the taste of blood and ash in his mouth, and lungs that threatened to close at any moment. Screams. Screams that resonated in his ears, echoing and drawing him back. It wasn’t screams, it was a gossiping town, gathering around.

He was flustered to say the least, struggling to find words with sweat clinging his clothes to his body- mixed with the blackened reminder of fire that clung to his clothes. “You’re right, thankyou.” Words too rushed, he has to remember. Breathe.

“I’ve been trying,” It was the truth, a blazing church was no place for well anyone. Even the rubble that collected as a poor mess in the dirt. He wants to offer Blythe something, anything. “I’m sorry, but I believe their DNA is already everywhere, service just a day ago.” Eyes scanning the crowd that stayed despite his attempts to send them off- to comfort them. “And everyone wants to be here to show their support.”

Try harder, maybe? Blythe thinks. In response, however, she merely offers a mock-sympathetic nod. One can get away with a lot when one is Wheeler’s golden child and a highly decorated U.S. Army Major, but certain laws of this town are beyond breaking, even when one is Wheeler’s golden child and a highly decorated U.S. Army Major. Dare she say, especially.

A bite of the lips, as her leg bounces in anticipation. Of what, she’s not sure yet.

“Which is admirable. I know.” It is, to an extent. It is also idiotic. “Thank you anyway.” Her eyes dart back to Charles. So many questions, but rules are rules, sometimes. “What about you, though?” she asks, softer now. “Are you okay?”

penni’s shock digs farther in her gut. that is until blythe’s finger digs further. almost like a pinch to pull her from a nightmare: that of a burning cross she cannot swallow. an accident, she’s certain. because where was God if someone purposefully set the church ablaze?

“uhm, yeah. alright.” two breaths out while wide eyes betray her own disdain for the tune she can’t quite recognize. that is till she is looking to blythe for direction. direction that comes in her moving like she was asked. a godsend, the woman. penni knows she’ll never be able to be half the officer she is but she can try.

and, inevitably, it is with renewed purpose that she observes blythe’s determination and somehow swallows the panic swelling in her stomach. there’s no time for that, at least not now. “officer weber, i think. he made sure the crowd wasn’t too close. maybe he’s helping the firemen right now. but, the . . firefighters are a little unorganized.” unorganized is a kinder word than the one that’d first popped into her head. “they’re … well, we haven’t had a fire in such a long time that i don’t think we can blame them. they’re volunteers, after all. but, uh, i don’t know how much evidence we’ll be able to recover. probably just caught ablaze because of how dry it’s been lately.”

she knows she is talking a lot. it’s either that or leveling herself to complete silence and she never really could stand the quiet. the roar of the fire might only send her into a deeper spiral if she did shut her mouth.

“Unorganized is one way to put it,” Blythe deadpans. Like bulls in a china shop is another. With four-inch stilettos and her half-assed basic fire protection course, she was Fireman Sam in comparison. “But that’s a worry for tomorrow. What matters is the fire’s contained.” Ish. “I’ll get Weber. In the meantime, we need to keep the people right where they are. No snooping, no shrines, no dramatic knee falls.” She tucks a handful of disheveled curls behind an ear, still eyeing Brooks. “I’ll trust you to take care of that.”

An objective, that’s what the rookie needs. While the composure act is almost impressive—a surge of pride, or has she just inhaled too much smoke?—the young officer is starting to babble, gaze reminiscent of a lost duckling. Would, Blythe wonders, Jody have looked at her like that, too?

Which is ridiculous, because her sister would’ve been over a decade older than Brooks and not even blond and she can’t afford to waste any more time on Jody.

Collateral damage. Just like the First Assembly Baptist Church.

Soon it’ll be nothing but dust and charred wood. Pieces of it, anyway. Though Brooks has a point. They won’t get far on their own. Instinctively, Blythe’s fingers drift to where a pocket should be, but Reiss hates women, so her skirt hasn’t got any.

“Before anyone touches the scene, I want everything videoed, sketched, and photographed,” she says. Next to them, a child is sobbing. “This was no accident.”

who: @blythebelanger​ when: june 15, 9:00pm. where: marion’s home.

When he heard the rumbling of Blythe’s car over the gravel driveway, Bird had slipped out the open kitchen window and back out into the yard. He’s always a little scarce around guests but he dislikes Blythe in particular. 

A handful of times he’d come around into the front yard and hid in the bushes to hiss at her as she approached the front door. It’s the sort of thing that Marion’s mother would have read into. Sometimes, Marion can hear her saying, Animals know what’s in a person’s heart. 

Well, Marion doesn’t give a shit what’s in Blythe’s heart – and Lady doesn’t seem to mind her. The wine uncorks with a pop. Then there is the musical tinkling of wine glasses, a few good glugs. The quiet is not unusual. There’s a lot of silence between them when they aren’t in bed. Not many words exchanged that could be repeated in a church. Well, except, oh God.

It feels especially sinful to be meeting like this tonight, of all nights. The church is nothing but a smoldering pile of ashes. The anniversary of that little girl’s disappearance. Marion feels a little dirtier than usual. She takes a sip of her wine and settles on the couch. She adjusts the black strap of her dress when it falls off her shoulder. 

Maybe she doesn’t know much about the other but everyone in town knows how much she wanted to find Cassie Klein – and more than that everyone knows just how her sister died. So she feels uneasy; inept. She thinks she ought to ask something sweet like, how are you? Or do you want to talk about it? But they don’t ask each other things like that and so she says instead:

“I thought of you today. When I saw all that smoke. Heard what it was. Am I allowed to ask about it yet?” She takes another sip of wine.

“Oh, you are.” Blythe shifts on the couch, and even though the smirk falters a tad quicker than usual, it is without effort that her voice melts into a purr. “But I may not be allowed to answer yet.”

Not that there’s plenty to say. It wasn’t like the movies. There were no flashbacks, no dramatic music in the background. (Unless you count the Amazing Grace flash mob, but she would prefer not to.) Just that: a building in flames. So Blythe tossed her jacket on the ground, yelled instructions at the useless men around her, and saved what could be saved of the day.

Nothing she hasn’t done before. Besides, bigger, better ones have been devoured even faster.

The screams came later, on the way to the station, and Jody’s sounded too much like Blythe’s name. As she retched by the patrol car, in the middle of an eerily desolate road, begging her empty stomach to let her vomit, her phone didn’t stop vibrating. There must be a hundred missed calls from her wife by now. Maybe a couple of messages too, though they both despise texting. She still hasn’t checked. In a minute. Or thirty.

Of course, she would need a much stronger drink to even consider discussing any of this with Marion Teague. The little talking they do, they limit to the weather. Nail polish preferences, if she’s feeling particularly kind.

Blythe reaches for her glass again. The maroon pencil skirt goes up her thigh, but she doesn’t bother fixing it. Eyes locked with the other’s, she takes a sip to… distract herself? Forget? Celebrate?

D. all of the above.

“Cute that you thought of me, though,” she quips. The wine and Marion’s perfume are both forty dollars too cheap, yet exactly what she’s craving tonight. “Something you do often, or is there just no Belanger without a pyre?”

DATE: june 15th, 2020 TIME: 09:24 am LOCATION: first assembly baptist church STATUS: open

Crows call from their unsettled homes, wings beating against the splintering air and greying sky. Blackened with smoke, it masks the sun. Clementine stained, the cascading rays still break through the tendrils, staining everything that darkened painting the illusion of sunset. Flames still licked, alive. But they settled. In their beating, they slowly simmered. Embers drifting to a simmer in the wind.

Shattered glass crunches beneath his booths, iridescent when the light hit it right- the shadows of colour. He’s long stopped smelling the smoke, long stopped smelling anything. He’s been here the past hour, since he slept through his first alarms. Something rare that he was asleep, let alone deep enough not to be disturbed. And he couldn’t find it in himself to make his way back home, so crowd control of those curious neighbours was what he offered. “Don’t worry, it’s not spreading.” Words Charles hopes convinces the other to get back into their car and head back home.

“And you’re welcome,” Blythe retorts, gesturing at her blouse. The white silk is barely visible between fist-sized patches of soot and smoke. One button may be missing, too. But what else was she to do? When she ran over and snatched the fire extinguisher out of his hands, the Head of the Wheeler Volunteer Fire Department looked like he was about to build her a shrine. (He better.)

As she approaches the caretaker, she’s still a little out of breath, and her eyes are prickling with the tears she let her fellow Wheelerites believe are from heartache. Thank God she got Papa’s blue ones. Crying on demand has never Blythe’s forte. At Nora’s funeral, she had to enlist the help of an onion.

“Is there a way to send them home?” she asks, observing the frantic crowd. Rather blunt, but screw compassion right now. That’s Charles’s job. “Before everyone and their cat gets DNA all over the place.”

open starter !

the scent of burning lumber is a long-forgotten memory of cook-outs in the backyard, or of the welcoming, bonding bonfire the wheeler police department held amid her first month on the job. now, she is not so certain the smoke on the breeze will avoid her. not with the way her eyes water, and especially not when her phone had pinged of notice that it was the church. she is too concerned to think of avoiding the crowd.

“oh, no no no. i don’t understand – church was only just yesterday! how could it be on fire?”

“Newsflash, junebug. it’s our job to find out.” Blythe’s index finger digs into Brooks’s shoulder. The idea is to nudge her forward, but she might as well be poking a dummy. One more time. Snap. Out. Of. It. “Move.”

Mercifully, in a characteristic last-minute save, she does remember to add a softer note to her voice. It’s the church, after all. Wheeler’s guiding star. Any ounce of common sense is bound to be buried under the impending avalanche of sorrow and Judgment Day theories.

A few are already wailing. As the pair makes their way through the crowd, eyes brimming with woe and terror follow their every step. In the back, by the fire truck, someone is—for real, she can’t make this up—humming the tune to Amazing Grace. The baker’s wife joins in, plump, flour-speckled hands clutched around a rosary, and soon the others echo. 

Fuck’s sake. Getting anything out of them is going to be like quizzing a goat on the periodic table of elements.

Jaw set, Blythe shoots a sideways glance at Brooks. “Alright, what do we have so far? Who was the first responder?”

hi hi! i’m grethe (she/her, gmt+1) and i’m beyond excited to write with everyone. this is blythe, your local power suit lesbian. no wanted connections because i prefer establishing those with each character individually, but if you’re interested in figuring something out or just plotting in general, give this a like and i’ll come bug you!

INTRODUCING THE HERO

Actually, it's pronounced Belandfghjsdkfklsgsfv *insert the sound of a dog choking on a candy wrapper here and claim it's French*

Second Deputy for the Wheeler Police Department

Retired U.S. Army Major and Iraq War hero

Femme lesbian, chocoholic, adrenaline junkie, true crime enthusiast

Textbook arrogant Leo who thinks the whole world revolves around her

At the age of seventeen, set the Belanger Ranch on fire with the intention of eliminating the main obstacle to her relationship with her future wife—her religious freak of a mother

(Her father had already been consuming so much alcohol at that point that he was inevitably going to burst into flames on his own accord, so they weren’t too concerned about him)

Failed and murdered her baby sister instead 

Utterly obsessed with solving the Cassie Klein Case because, a) look above, b) failure is never an option, and c) saving that little girl was supposed to be the crown jewel of Blythe’s redemption arc, and she’ll be damned if she lets it slip through her fingers

Trademarks include icy glare, black stilettos, perfectly curled hair, and Tex the German Shepherd at her side

There’s 300% chance she’ll lie down on a pentagram at some point and start mocking Wheeler’s resident demons. Think a pocket-sized Shane Madej in a blonde wig, basically

Likes three (3) people and every dog

Has definitely lived long enough to become a villain