oh my darling

Maybe it’s why she almost immediately wants to snarl at the poor girl who steps in to pay for her — what, does she look that fucking broke? — but then the other woman keeps babbling on and on about her good deed of the day or something, and Clem thinks it’ll be easier to get out of the conversation if she just says thank you or something. “Yeah, thanks,” she waves off her offer for something more, despite something sweet sounding fucking good right now. She does love to eat her feelings. “I don’t pay that shit forward, though. No offense. Don’t like the pressure.” She raises an eyebrow. “You always this perky in the mornings?”

Where: Anywhere around Blue Harbor

Sadie wandered down the main street of Blue Harbor, her camera hanging loosely around her neck as she snapped photos of the little things that caught her eye—vibrant flower pots outside the bakery, the way the sunlight hit the water down by the pier, the lazy way a dog napped on the sidewalk in front of the bookstore. She had been in a bit of a creative slump lately, but today felt different. She'd gotten this idea to document the town. A sort of visual love letter to Blue Harbor.

She stopped for a moment, camera raised, and captured someone strolling past. Lowering the camera, Sadie smiled and jogged over. "Hey, sorry to interrupt," she said, her voice warm, "but I just took a photo of you for a project I’m working on. It's a 'day-in-the-life' of the town kinda thing, just capturing random moments. Is it okay if I use the photo?"

“No,” she hums, though there’s no heat to her tone. “In fact, delete it right now. And never speak to me again,” she wraps an arm around Sadie’s neck and pulls her close, planting an obnoxious kiss on her friend’s temple. “Stop being so comfortable approaching strangers,” she chides her as she pulls away, offering Sadie a smirk. “I’ve a feeling I’m gonna have to fucking fight one of them one day for getting weird with you, and you know I can’t afford to leave Dionysus alone for a stint in jail again.”

alec was his friend, too, and although it's childish graham couldn't help but feel a bit possessive. "alec and i are 'fucking nerds,' as you so politely put it, together. we go way back, clem," he staked his claim to poking jabs at their shared friend. it wasn't like graham had been such an asshole in high school that he hadn't spent time with kids outside of the jock and cheerleader crowd. he had gone to alec's shows and hung out when it was just the two of them. "i love the guy, i'm not just trying to piss on his intelligence. it was just a joke, okay? even alec laughed it off," he adjusted his tie to avoid saying anything else that might hurt them both. "look, i am sorry... i guess i got too excited about catching up, i didn't think about how talking about your friend might hurt you."

he followed her into the copy room, his attention directed towards a fresh ream of the photo paper she had come for in the first place. "right, sorry, i forgot," he sheepishly apologized for the third time in the past couple of minutes. "i'm happy to supply photo paper whenever you need to stop by city hall. no one really uses the stuff anymore, anyways. we mostly use regular printer paper." graham grabbed the brand spanking new ream, plus the already opened stack, and handed them to clem. "i'm sorry for all the hassle, hopefully this was worth the walk and talk," he added as the fourth in a long line of owed apologies.

She’s especially bitter now that Graham tries to one-up her in terms of friendship with Alec — we go way back, he says, and Clem can do little else but scoff. “Yeah? So why’s he never mentioned you before?” she asks, voice posed as a challenge. “I’ve known him since we were in diapers, Oswald. He’s had plenty of opportunities to say something about you to me.” Alright, that’s unfair. Alec could very well have mentioned Graham at some point to Clementine — and it could have very well been during one of the times she’d tuned him out, which happened more often than not in high school.

But she’s not going to concede to that point — she’s stubborn, and a bitch, and it’s better Graham gets that now than before he wears her down enough to maybe actually get her to accept dinner with him and his grandma. Besides, she and Alec were practically thrust out of their mothers’ wombs inseparable — despite how much shit they give each other, Clementine doesn’t think there’s anyone she’d so readily go to bat for. “So if you’re just making shit up to take the heat off you, try something else,” she sniffs haughtily, taking the photo paper without much fanfare, balancing it against her hip as she gives Graham a long, skeptical once-over. 

Then the guy says sorry, and Clementine wants to pull her hair out. Can’t he just be a dick? It’d be much easier to end this conversation on a less culpable note if he could just stick to being some busy-body asshole who’s been wasting her time. Instead, he’s inviting her to dinner with his grandmother, apologizing for inadvertently insulting the most important person in her life, and still giving her free photo paper. Jesus Christ, Clem’s a fucking monster, comparatively. “Just—” she huffs, frustrated. “Whatever, it’s fine, could you just—” she waves her arms around, photo paper and all, gesturing wildly at the man in front of her. “I don’t know, call me a bitch or something? You’re freaking me out.”

As they were walking to Clementine’s place—not too far out from their typical Weaver Ridge haunts—the memory of the luncheon swept them away again, a watery blur. That morning Terry had been content to simply let the world run its course, even as little fissures came and went. The gnawing feeling of being left, reciprocated now for Micah, leaving him at a time he’d needed them most. And somehow in between, Clementine had pricked her way through their skin, not quite shattering the mask that hid a sharper version of themselves, but enough for the bolts of hot pain to trickle through.

Their raps on Clementine’s door were pronounced. Three beats, hard and fast, staccato sounds. She opened the door shortly after, finding her a little—distracted, almost, and still wearing what they assume was her sleepwear. “Oh. Were you not expecting me?” Terry began, casting a cursory glance at her figure. Far too much skin again, just as it had been in the luncheon. It had made them feel somewhat overdressed, though they would venture to say that a button-down and jeans seemed only polite. There’s almost an ease to Clementine now that stood in contrast to her more deliberate ensemble then, all sharp silhouettes and curves, the interplay of shadow and light. “Should I have come later?”

Entering the apartment—quaint, but well-loved—their nostrils immediately flared at the scent of cleaning supplies, synthetic citrus that was customary yet almost intrusive. They’d elected not to comment. Instead, they drew focus on something else: “I thought you might appreciate some new acrylics,” they began, holding out a paper bag that contained a set of ten mixing colors, “I had to pick up a pantograph and some poster tubes anyway.” Pragmatic as always, or at least appearing to be. Terry didn’t play the same games of flirtation that Clementine had come to master. Mostly because they wouldn’t know how. And, anyway, the gift had been an innocuous gesture for—

Friends. They were friends, weren’t they? It hadn’t escaped their attention just how few female friends they’d had over the years. Not for lack of trying, Terry mused, just that men had always been more uncomplicated to befriend and easier to untangle themselves from. Yet it was always difficult with women. ‘Your quietude has such a malleability to it, Ketzi,’ their father had said, once. In the company of women, they’d learned to be more gentle, and quiet, and armed themselves against ever showing too much—too afraid to show them their sharpness, the frankness of their desire, the hunger of a butcher’s daughter. 

But something about Clementine’s candidness, then and here and now, made them think they would appreciate it, this person inside them. Just as controlled, but more daring, and unafraid to want.

They walked to the side of Dionysus’s birdcage, the blue budgie flitting back and forth with each of their steps. “Pets are a reflection of their owners,” they slipped an index finger between the birdcage rods, trying to lure him out. It wasn’t a hardship; the blue budgie had come alive at this point, vying for their attention. “Funny. He does remind me a little bit of you.” 

A small smile tugged at the corners of their lips, then, only to look back and meet her gaze briefly. Arms crossed, now, as the first line of defense—or to stop anything else from coming out. “I don’t think I ever asked you how you decided upon naming him Dionysus.” The interrogative is hidden in the declarative. Customary with them: the invitation was never directly issued, only coaxed out.

At the mention of Dionysus’s name, Clem quirks an eyebrow, leaning slightly forward. “What, you don’t look at him and immediately think Dionysus?” she asks, her voice exaggeratedly incredulous, but the grin on her face betrays her teasing. “God of wine, revelry, chaos — and depending on who you ask, probably bad decisions. Figured it suited him — and me, if I’m being honest,” she huffs. “Plus, he’s got that kinda flashy, chaotic energy about him, don’t you think?”

She takes a beat to let her words settle, her smirk softening into something almost thoughtful. “Honestly, though, I just thought it sounded cool. Dionysus feels like the kind of name that makes you stop and think for a second, you know? A name with weight.” She flicks a glance back at the bird, who seems to be preening under Terry’s attention. She doesn’t mention it’s her mom who taught her names should carry weight — named her Clementine Briar for the dramatic flair, baby girl, sure it’d carry Clem straight to greatness. Greatness has not found her yet — hardly plausible, under the dim light of O’Shea’s Irish Pub and the mystery smell-of-the-day perpetually haunting Weaver Ridge. “Not sure he lives up to it, but he tries.”

Clem shifts her weight, uncrossing her arms to reach for the paper bag Terry had brought. “New acrylics, huh?” Her tone is teasing again, but there’s a genuine warmth to the way she’s looking at the gift. “Careful, Terry. Start spoiling me like this, and I might think you actually like me.” Her grin is cheeky, but her voice is laced with an edge of sincerity, a glimmer of that vulnerability she rarely lets show. The gift is thoughtful — she doesn’t know what to do with thoughtful. Doesn’t often deal with thoughtful. And she’s not sure whether this was even meant to be thoughtful, or just some very Terry-like nonverbal signaling that’s saying something Clementine is certainly not picking up.

She stares at the paints some more before finally deciding to set them on the kitchen counter, knowing full well stuffing them in her closet’s out of the question right now. She gestures loosely to the couch. “You gonna sit, or are you planning to stand there and woo Dionysus the whole time?” She smirks. “Hate to break it to you, but I’m the one who invited you over, not him.”

At his question, she blows a slow stream of smoke into the cool night air, her lips quirking upward. “What does it look like I’m doing? Chain-smoking and people-watching. Couldn’t sleep, figured I’d come out and see what the world had to offer me tonight.” She shrugs lazily, eyes darting toward the gas station sign that flickers ominously above them. “Spoiler alert: so far, it’s just you. Real disappointing, not gonna lie.” She taps the edge of her cigarette against the wall, her grin turning sharp again. “You’re lucky I’m in a charitable mood, or I’d call TMZ and tell ‘em you eat honey buns like they’re your last meal. Can’t imagine there’s a good angle anywhere there, Kidd.”

She stepped back a bit, the room suddenly feeling a little hotter than it previously was. As if that wasn't bad enough, she could feel herself blush at the woman's comment. She licked her lips and chuckled lightly. "Have you watched Death Becomes Her? -My wife and I dressed as Helen and Madeline, the two stars of the movie." She explained, while making the other aware of her relationship status.

She steps back just slightly, not wanting to crowd the other woman, but her energy stays warm and inviting the way it usually does when she’s this drunk and this high, the neon lights catching in the tilt of her head. “Don’t worry about me, baby. Married women are a strictly look-don’t-touch zone,” Clem adds, a hand over her heart like she’s making a solemn vow. “I’ve got plenty of other ways to cause trouble tonight.”

Her gaze rakes over the other’s costume again, this time with a more casual curiosity, the kind of look that lingers just long enough to be flattering without overstepping. “You do pull off the undead glamor thing, like, freakishly well, though,” she admits, leaning back into the beat of the music. “Guess your wife’s gotta be keeping an eye out for all the other bad decisions floating around in here tonight. Or—” Clem grins, her tone turning light and cheeky. “Maybe you’re the one keeping her out of trouble.”

It really did feel good to say out loud. Even if it was dangerous and even if it made her feel uneasy, it was still freeing. She hadn't realized that her vengeance might look like a cage all these years later, but it felt too late to try and go back now. Pouting, Opal set the cup back down again. "Well, now you're hurting my feelings. Am I that obvious?" A beat passed and she let the mask slip a little bit more. She couldn't help the default to toying with people. Maybe that was a defense mechanism, but Opal didn't often look inward. "Okay, maybe I was curious... is your specialty just IDs or can you do more than that?"

Details.

Am I that obvious? Clem raises an incredulous eyebrow at her question. “If you were here to fuck, we’d be fucking already,” she points out. “And if you were here to make friendly conversation, well — you wouldn’t be,” she smirks. “I don’t make friendly conversation, and I think we both know that.” She hums thoughtfully, eyeing Opal incredulously at her question. The truth is, she can get a lot more than IDs done — for the right price, and for the right person. Then again, she’s not sure how much she wants to incriminate herself right this second. “What else are you lookin’ for?” she answers with her own question. “If I can’t do it, I can always refer you to someone who can.”

“Oh it could be like in Ratatouille when it turns out he’s the son of the chef guy. The ginger dude, not the rat.” He looks up, scrunching his nose, “Sorry if you haven’t seen that, by the way. Awesome movie. I’ve been to Paris, it’s fuckin’ ace. Can I live with you in your big fancy house when I come visit?” Because obviously Clem is a little French, she has to be. He knows best to not argue with people when they insist they’re not what CJ thinks of them, but he really thinks the bartender is nice, like super nice. She reminds him of Jeanie in a way, and he loves Jeanie. “Oh, dope, I dropped out too!” For his skateboarding career, but like, you didn’t need to know Trigonometry to do a 360. “Okay so like, you know candy corn? Iunno why it’s called that, but it like tastes like sugar, and I saw it’s like a syrup. And it’s like red, and they sell it at Walmart!” As he finishes describing the syrup, he finishes his list, sliding it over to Clem.

“Anyway, it’ll be big enough for the both of us,” she pauses for a second, nose wrinkled. “Or I guess the three of us, if you’re gonna bring your husband along. His brother can’t come, though,” she warns him, annoyed at how quickly her cheeks flush at the thought of Hunter Vora anywhere near her. That motherfucker still makes her feel like a schoolgirl, and she doesn’t even like men. She’s just embarrassed he made her think she did, for a minute there.

She listens as CJ explains the syrup, then shakes her head once when he finishes. “Don’t have it, then,” she tells him. “Never heard of it. Tell you what, though, I’ll be sure to pick some up next time I’m at Walmart just for you,” she nods over at someone hailing her further down the bar. “Gimme a sec,” she tells CJ, leaving him for a minute to work on his orange list. Once everything is settled with the other patron, she comes back and takes the receipt paper CJ happily hands her, giving it a look-see. It takes her an admittedly embarrassing amount of time to realize CJ’s just added every letter of the alphabet to the beginning of the word, and she’s mostly shocked she expected anything else, really.

Giving him a look, she says, “Even if I were to count these as words — and I’m willing to, ‘cause all words are fuckin’ made up anyway — I did say thirty,” she holds up the paper to face him, taps at the word ‘zorange.’ “These are twenty-six.” She sets the paper down and shakes her head in mock disappointment, though there’s a small amused smile threatening to break through the facade. “Guess that only gets you one drink on the house, pal.”

About to grab a paper towel, she noticed Clementine who was definitely in a very different outfit than what she was wearing. She laughed at the thought that she was not recognizable because of her not having a drink. "Well, I definitely think I was going to bring a drink into the restroom. You look awesome." Rachel shared with a smile, though it faltered as the younger woman pointed out the obvious. "Yeah, I can't say you're wrong there, I don't fit the type probably." She shared with a soft laugh though was rather confused by the commentary on what she'd be doing instead. "Media literacy pamphlets? Damn you must think I'm very lame if you don't think I'm even fun enough to give out candy. Which I absolutely do give out candy or this year I have a bowl out.

Either way, she doesn’t trust what she learns at the bar, unless someone’s spilling their guts to her. And Rachel hasn’t had occasion to do that yet. “I genuinely don’t know you well enough to clock what you’d be doing on Halloween,” she points out. “Take whatever my drunk ass says with a grain of salt, alright?” Another woman enters the bathroom, clearly looking about to burst. It grabs Clem’s attention for a second before she focuses back on Rachel. “Did you hand out candy this year, then? Brand candy or the lame knockoffs?”

At Ash’s mention of Blue Harbor’s inexplicable draw for the British, she can’t help but let out a small snort. “Yeah, no shit,” she shakes her head, still in a little disbelief that someone from Ash’s past could find them here, of all places, and not even for the purpose of finding them. Blue Harbor should be studied, actually. The paranormal activity here must be off the fucking charts. “Sorry about your rough couple of days,” she adds, because she is. She’s not so heartless that she thinks someone like Ash, of all people, deserves to be going through some bullshit. She can’t imagine what she’d feel, if someone like her fucking dad showed up out of the blue in this town. Probably would throw herself into the river, actually. “Sure you don’t need me to fight them for you?”

Rolling her eyes at Ash’s dramatics, she sighs loudly, shaking her head. “I just know you’d object and ruin the whole thing,” she matches Ash’s energy with a smirk. “But you know I’d run out of the chapel with you. We could start a life together. In — hm,” she frowns, suddenly drawing a blank for places she’d like to live in. “I don’t know. Fuckin’ — somewhere tropical, maybe.”

Looking down at herself, she snorts at the other’s guess. “Weirdly enough, no guesses for me tonight,” she admits, shrugging her shoulders. “Anyone who gets near enough to me doesn’t seem to be able to do anything but stare.” She smirks — doesn’t mean to sound cocky, but probably can’t get around it, honestly, considering the nature of the implication. “Personally, I think I look like a bitch who forgot to order her costume so she just wore a lingerie set with her gnarly visual effect,” she gestures at the fake-slash on her neck. “But I’ve got insider knowledge, obviously.” She downs the shot in her hand quickly, licking her lips of the excess liquid, then sets the glass on the bar and holds out her hand, fucking polite as anything. “Clementine,” she introduces herself, stepping closer to the other woman, gaze searching, intrigued, and absolutely enraptured. “And you are?”

gabe doesn't understand clem's unwavering loyalty; their ways of surviving have always been different. maybe it's gabe's sense of failed grandiosity; meant for something better, but making no strides to get there. maybe clem's just - a better person, than they are. "leo's with their partner, stuart's being weird, seb's -" gabe pauses, making a scale gesture with their hands - drink threatening to spill over. "- i'm trying to be good! or, like, better - maybe." the idea of waiting causes gabe to snort as they take another sip; sputtering out liquor as they cough. "three hours? that's - like -" cough, sputter, spit, etc. "- torture. you're torturing me here, clem, please -"

She finishes her scribbling on the clipboard, side-eying Gabe’s stumbling attempt to count the tonic waters. “Seventeen, huh?” she muses with an amused lift of her eyebrow. “I’m gonna assume that’s a guess at best, but thanks for the pseudo-help.” She tucks the clipboard under her arm, leaning back with crossed arms as Gabe goes on about their whole crew being MIA tonight. She scowls exaggeratedly as they finish begging, hoping it exudes offense.

“I’m your fucking last resort?” She says it with a scoff but without a real bite; hardly something to take personally, considering they both have their own hierarchy of friends. Still, she doesn’t usually pass up an opportunity to be dramatic about something just for the fun of it. “Bit of advice — keep that to yourself next time you want someone to come out with you,” she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from smirking. “Look, you fuck, it’s three hours. Go do a lap around the bar, find someone else to pester. I’ll catch you when I’m done.” She raises her eyebrow, giving them a challenging look. “And if you’re still here by then, first round wherever we end up will be on me, alright?” She holds out her arms exaggeratedly, clipboard and everything. “That’s my final offer, take it or leave it.”

Her dancing came to an abrupt stop after being elbowed in her back --accidently, she assumed as she turned around to face -damn. Did she audibly say that? The last thing she expected was for her assailant to be a gorgeous woman in lingerie. "It's okay," Sylvia said, shrugging the whole thing off. She leaned a little closer so her cochlear implant so captured what the other said. "Freaky? Thanks, that's what I was going for." she chuckled lightly. "You look hot and freaky. What are you supposed to be exactly?" she yelled over the music.

Truth be told, she’d had to get away from Shambles for a second, so she’s not really sure where she’s hanging around. Seeing her in her costume had made Clementine want to promptly throw herself off a bridge, as it was just another reminder she could not and would not ever have her. For reasons. Reasons that make perfect sense to her when she’s sober and Shambles isn’t dressed in practically nothing, anyway.

She steps closer, just enough to be heard, and shrugs in an exaggerated, carefree way, leaning into the haze of the high. “Goes with the night, right? Little danger, little bad decision-making,” she narrows her eyes playfully, looking Sylvia up and down with open curiosity. “And you? Who are you supposed to be? Besides, y’know, my next bad idea,” she smirks, raising a curious eyebrow.