miles jackson

He didn’t finish the sentence, but others had in the past. “Sad, I know,” she answered with a slight chuckle as she climbed into the passenger seat and buckled in. “It’s not like…the kinda sad you get when you’re missing something you used to have. Not a sharp pain. More like a slow soft ache you can forget about if you don’t think about it too hard, that feeling of knowing you’re missing out on it but having little in the way of words to describe it. Instead of feeling sad I just imagine all the places I’d go if I ever got out of here.” Her voice went dreamy, soft velvet at the edges, head back against the headrest. “Europe sounds the most interesting…I want to hit every country I can.” 

At the wistful blame tinted sound in Miles’ voice, Willow turned, quietly but her face impassioned as she put a hand on his shoulder. “Hindsight is a wicked beast. You had no way of knowing you were going to get trapped in a town with a bunch of monsters you didn’t think could exist. Don’t beat yourself up for not acting on knowledge there’s no way you could have had. The only purpose hindsight serves is to make us so busy lamenting the past that we freeze and stop acknowledging our present.” She pulled her hand back, not letting the touch linger in case Miles wasn’t the type that reacted well to contact. “We get out of this town ever, you can just come to Europe with me. We’ll have ourselves a grand adventure.” A wide toothy grin, her eyes lighting up, because in that moment she believed it, that it was a possibility tucked somewhere in the shadows of this town. “Home is good. It’s supposed to be my day off, my coworkers will murder me if I walk into the library today. Besides I’ve got some cleaning up to do…had a bit of poltergeist trouble that Father Benjamin just cleared up for me. My kitchen is in need of a hell of a lot of elbow grease.”

Sometimes he wished he could have chose a different path. Travel more. Maybe he’d still be married. The job he had chosen was hard, dangerous, and often ugly. Yet Miles never faltered, often putting in sixty hours a week—it would have been more, but the captain utterly drew the line there, saying that the work was dangerous enough without sleep deprivation making his officers clumsy to boot. He found a way to make his hours off-duty matter, anyway—he spent the time at home reviewing his textbooks, committing helpful information to memory, testing himself constantly. And once a month, he submitted an official query, in writing, about the job as a watcher. He didn’t like the word workaholic or obsessed, but he was beginning to think that there was no other way of describing it. And it did make him feel bad that he never appreciated the world around him when he was able to. “My wife - ex wife” He corrected himself rather quickly. “She always wanted to go to Paris. I was always too busy with work. One case led to another. She’s living there now.” 

Willow could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen Miles outside of the Watch Station. She wondered if in his life before, he’d been the type to take days off. It was understandably impossible in Ashbourne. Even if he wasn’t  clocked in this was a small town and everyone viewed him as law, as someone to run to when something was wrong, as someone responsible for providing some small semblance of safety. It must have been hard from him…first dealing with the monstrous things people could do to one another, and then coming here and find monsters within monsters. She’d been told that outside this town creatures were made of nightmares and bedtime stories, they were treated as makebelieve. She wondered if she was somehow better off than the outsiders in the world, having grown up as prepared to engage with a werewolf as a human.

His casual voice sounded rusty with disuse, like he was either not used to being asked questions that presumed he was a person made of more things than being a safety vest for the townspeople, or he was simply uncomfortable speaking about his life before. Willow wanted to press but didn’t want to press all at the same time. Miles was one of the few people in town she hadn’t pressured for stories of his life outside. She felt the oddest fear about it, like even asking would break him into a thousand pieces and she didn’t want to be responsible for breaking someone with such kind, sad eyes. She could talk enough for them both, she decided. “My family is one of the oldest human lineages in town,” she answered with a nod. “Probably not hard to believe that a lot of human families don’t make it past a few generations, this town isn’t kind to us and our skin isn’t as thick as some of the other species. But my family has been around for a long time. My brother is…the first person we’ve lost in about four generations.” She didn’t want to linger back on that subject though. “It’s why I like working at the library so much. People bring me their stories…the untrue ones they remember and the true ones they want to share, and I copy them down and for a second I feel like I’m anywhere other than Ashbourne. Yesterday I transcribed a story that was set in Italy…gosh what a beautiful city that sounds like. Have you ever been?”

Was this all he knew? Work and work and no play? He supposes, when he took the time to think about it, that it was the environment in which he had grown. Home for Troubled Teens where he’d gone into right after his mother’s death, the home sponsored by the church where she had attended mass faithfully every week, toting little Miles along with her, wasn’t so bad. The dog-eat-dog dynamic wasn’t as pronounced as he’d find it later in the foster system, not with the severe Sisters watching over them with the constant reminders that Jesus expected them to love one another. Still, there was no shortage of bigger kids picking on little ones, sometimes to the point of really hurting them, and as little as he was, it was there that Miles took up the habit of fighting bullies. It was a habit that got him expelled from temporary homes over and over again. It bothered him a little as a teenager, the way he seemed incapable of developing relationships with people, but eventually, he let it go. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about people—he did, he really did. He just was only capable of caring from a distance. Which was an understanding that actually helped him determine his career path.

“I was just pissed, and then they pissed me off more.” Again, Marshall’s fault for antagonizing it but he wasn’t just going to outright admit it. This whole town was pissing him off and the situation he was in now was bothering him more and more. Turns out he wasn’t going to be able to get by in this town like a shadow like he had ultimately planned till he made his escape. He watches the other for a moment as he leans back more comfortably in the passenger seat. “Ya know, don’t let me tell you what your job is or anything but I feel like, with the experience I have, that its a bad idea to let someone lounge in your passenger seat when you’ve arrested them. I’m pretty sure most people would actually take to hitting ya to get out.”

Not that Marshall had any thought in doing that, in fact, he was actually the most relaxed he’d felt in a while. He was actually wanting to sleep on their way to where ever the fuck the dude was taking him and just enjoy the ride and hopefully the peace and quiet he was going to get. After the ghost boy in his home, Marshall had been having a hard time falling asleep. Every time he would close his eyes he would hear the giggle and suddenly be up and ready to move again. He needed to get out of that house. He’s been more than ready to get out after that night and buying a home in Ashbourne wasn’t as hard as one would think, he has steady pay and its so weird to have his pockets full of cash. It makes him wonder what this town is really doing to him. Besides the obvious intrusion of ghosts and entrapment, he’s starting to think this town is forcing him to settle down. He hates that. Its been far too long since he’s had a home of his own. He was sure he’s never had one again. 

“Not that I’m planning on doing anything like that I just feel like you should be more careful.”

Twenty-nine year-old detectives were not the norm. It took a lot of drive, a lot of persistence. Something Miles had in generous measure. Now at thirty-seven, his patience was running thinner and thinner. To the point where he wondered if he was still up for the job. He wasn’t a detective here, but a watcher. Still, job as the same. He didn’t always know that he wanted to make detective—hell, for a long time, he didn’t even know he wanted to be in law enforcement. He was what social workers liked to call “troubled,” though he wouldn’t agree with that descriptor even then. At least, no more than any pubescent kid. Different, sure, but he wasn’t exactly drowning kittens and picking on the littler kids. Quite the opposite, really.

Miles couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when he’d become committed to law and order. His parents weren’t murdered by some fluke of the parole system (his dad had never been around; his mom died of a particularly aggressive strain of lung cancer when he was six—of course, it didn’t help that she could barely make rent on her waitress’s wages, let alone medical bills). He wasn’t abused (at least, no more than was normal for foster parents before he grew tall enough to make them think twice about dealing out casual swats) or molested, though he knew kids who had been. Even as a child, Miles emanated something that made it clear that he was no one’s prey. Quite the opposite, really. Now, for some reason, this kid, reminded him of himself at that age. Young and volatile. 

She managed the barest of smiles as she took in the final drugs of tea from her cup. “I guess I’m no more a pain in your butt than Mrs. Robinson,” she answered, voice a cross between playful teasing and sober sympathy. “I’ve been dealing with those dreams since I was born…but even I can admit that this last one was …a whole nother level.” Willow hesitated when Miles insisted on taking her home. Did she look that fragile and incapable or did he really really need an excuse to get out from behind the desk, to be able to see a task from beginning to end? Either way she supposed it would be pointless to try and argue a second time.

She rose, body protesting, feeling heavy and leaden as she left her empty teacup behind. Hopefully the secretary didn’t terrible mind cleaning up after her. God how much tea did the station go through trying to soothe bereaved citizens? “Alright,” she answered, about a minute too late to be a fitting response to Miles’ words. She fell into step behind him, following him to the car. Most people were drawn to working at the station to replace all the lost order and chaos that could overtake the town at any given moment. But Miles moved with such a surety she got the feeling this work was in his dna. “Is this what you did before Ashbourne?” she asked, voice cautious, so he knew he didn’t have to answer if he didn’t want to.

“She’s a unique case.” He added to her comment, giving her a smile in the process. Sometimes he worried that he talked too much like a cop. Not that unusual. He was a cop, after all—Even if he wasn’t called cop here but - watcher. The jargon was pretty much the same. He found himself employing the familiar phrases even off the clock. I hear you. I understand what you’re saying. Here’s what I need you to do for me. Okay? You understand what I’m telling you? Everything’s under control. All phrases trained into a cop, designed to reassure, to control, to establish authority over the situation at hand. He supposed it was inevitable that they would eventually bleed into what little personal life he has. He spent so much time on the job that his work self was more his real self than the person he was at home, alone in his shitbox apartment. Besides, he’d never been much good at talking to people. “Brusque” was a word that social workers frequently used on their reports about him even in his childhood—and when it wasn’t that, it was “quiet,” though that was something of an understatement. Put it this way: if he were a doctor, his beside manner would be atrocious. Probably even horrifying. He wasn’t a sociopath. He felt empathy, too much of it, even, but he never learned how to express it—and even if he’d known how, there was no one to express it to. When he was a child, a teenager, the weight of it all would inevitably manifest in silent, destructive rages, but that almost never happened anymore. The cop talk helped. Now it was just the silence. Though the phrases might sound stiff to some—unconcerned, impersonal—for him, they’re a useful tool. Didn’t mean he didn’t try to sound more human sometimes. Specially with people he sympathized with. for the past few weeks, he’d grown rather fond of her. Her insistence. Her bravery. Her refusal to lose hope and give up. It was a strength that often times went unnoticed and under appreciated.

She’d spent most of her life in Ashbourne finding other things to spend her energy on. To give as much warmth and positive energy and purpose to her existence as possible. But right now the thought of it made her feel so very weary…resume her life with a gaping hole in it, try to go about a day without feeling the guilt and the sorrow and the anger roiling around her insides. This town was her home but it had taken from her…taken someone good and quiet who never got in the way or made waves. Where else did she focus her energy? On the family that wanted nothing to do with her? On the townsfolk who could barely hold themselves together let alone bare the weight of her grief?

The tea was more welcomed than she realized. Willow gripped the cup and didn’t wait for it to cool, let it scald her tongue and the back of her throat just a little, just enough to let her pretend that the moisture in her eyes was just because of the heat. Miles was good at his job, he had a way of riding that line between professional detachment and feeling like a trustworthy and familiar adviser. She knew he was right…of course he was right. “It sucks how everything is so much easier said than done,” she murmured. The silence had been nice…she could have just sat quietly, a nick nack on his desk, and found solace in just not being alone. But when he offered to drive her home, Willow shifted in her seat. “I don’t want to be any more of a pain in your butt than I already am….you don’t have to do that. My feet aren’t the thing that’s broken. Sounds like your day is already busy enough. Bad dreams put everyone on edge.”

He was’t sure if he was good at this part of his job anymore. The comforting victims or families of victims. He often times felt like it wasn’t helping at all. How could it? Words were often times meaningless, right? Then again, people needed to hear that someone cared. They even wanted to be lied to. Wanted for someone to tell them everything would be okay even when it was obvious that it wasn’t. Perhaps that’s why he felt like he failed at this. Because he didn’t like to lie and give people false hope. That, in Miles opinion, was far worse than the truth. He watched her grab the mug in her hands and take small sips of the tea. Was not sure if it would help her but he’d learned through experience that it often provided some alleviation. Her posture changed a bit after his offer and he nodded when she rejected it, explaining her reasons why. “I assure you, you are not a pain my butt.” He spoke, giving her a smile and hoping that his words would lighten the mood a little. Everything had been so dreary lately. “The dreams are making people anxious and scared. It’s normal.” 

@d-leviathan

“Ya know its been a long time since I’ve been arrested.” He wasn’t lying, Marshall hadn’t been arrested since he was a teenager. Which seemed like a long time ago, damn he was only 28, maybe Ashley did have it right calling him an old man cause he was starting to think like one there for a second. He was going to live a lot longer than two decades, he needs to hold back the old man talk. Instead, he focused on trying to pay attention to the world around him after having his head knocked around by some assholes he was fighting not too long ago.

Marshall had been basically vibrating, probably looking for trouble which is why he was probably to blame for starting the fight. All it took was someone bumping into him to set him off. Another wolf no less, it was a pretty fun fight but they attracted the law here in Ashbourne. But not before either combatant beat the other to a pulp, which was why half of Marshall’s face was basically bruised and he was slightly dazed. Not a concussion he knows what those are like and Marshall’s almost disappointed cause he thinks the guy was holding himself back. Rude. But in all honesty, and here’s what most would consider is bad and he should talk to someone about it, is that he feels ten times calmer than he has since he first appeared in town.

“You gonna lock me up for the night or we gonna have a talk or somethin?” He asks, not that he cares but if the dude pressing charges on him Marshall would like to know what he’s in for. 

It felt odd being called Miss Forsyth…a grownup professional title that seemed a painful contrast to how small and unsure and childish she felt in the moment. Rowan had been quiet, studious, mature beyond his years, not the type to go party at The Cloud, or venture into the woods on a bet. Willow was beginning to brew an idea that some of these disappearances weren’t really sad consequences to reckless behavior, but instead were planned and aggressive kidnappings. She remembered sitting down and trying to explain what her brother’s face had looked like to the first watchman on the scene. He’d seemed not quite awake…not quite there, not aware of what he was doing as he pushed through brush reacting to some sound that she hadn’t been able to hear. He’d been lured, he’d been tricked, he’d been helpless and so had she and now she was stuck in a state of open mouthed soul shuddering immobility.

A tear streaked down her cheek. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard these words, and Miles presented them with more kindness than some did. “I feel like if I stop coming here…if I stop asking…it’s me saying he doesn’t matter…that it’s okay that he’s just filtering out of this town like he was never a part of it.” A shaky inhale, a shakier exhale, her eyes closed for a moment and then opened again to take in the tired man before her. “I know you can only look for so long…I know there’s a million impossible problems and heartaches and fears that you’re asked to combat on any given day. Don’t take my showing up here as a question of your work ethic, Miles. It’s just…it’s the only thing I can do to fight for him, to remember that he’s not here, that he’s missing. I don’t know if i can stop and still be able to get out of bed in the morning.”

He used to be a lot more optimistic. That was before his daughter died and his wife left him. Before he was fired for being “crazy”. Before he realized just how fucked the world really was. True, it used to be simpler. You came across some sick psychopath and called it a day. You could experience the worst that humanity had to offer and even begin to feel apathetic towards it. Miles had stopped squirming when he stumbled upon dead bodies. And then he learned the truth. That fairytale monsters were real and that no one was doing a damn thing to stop them. At least that it what it looked like from where he was standing. He’d learn about hunters later but during the time around his daughter’s murder he believed that these creatures were unstoppable. Detective Jackson lived for his job and it was known to all those around him that he slept only to recharge his mental faculties, never for relaxation or sloth. Still, it was getting harder in harder with so much stuff going on. Cases like Rowan Forsyth’s disappearance made him restless. He really had wanted to find him and give her the good news. He wanted her morning to be different. One of happiness instead of the constant disappointment.

Not that Willow was judging, but Miles always looked like he was about 8 hours short of a good night’s sleep. He had that weary soul, tired down to the bone look about him and she hadn’t yet decided whether she thought it was because he burnt himself out caring too much or burnt himself out fighting not too care too much. Both paths were equally exhausting and likely to cause dark spots under the eyes. Of course he looked doubly worse today, and the sight of him made her body give a shudder, as if to remind her that she didn’t feel all that well today either.

Every day she was told the same, and yet every day she started out with hope in her eyes. Every day it wasn’t till she was face to face with some overworked peacekeeper and heard the words we don’t have anything to report, and then she deflated like a balloon, small sound caught in her throat, hands wringing in her lap. “Okay,” came the instinctive, heartbroken answer, even though none of this was okay. “What’s the…um…the rate…history wise…of there being something to report once someone goes missing? Has there…has anyone ever been found? It has to have had happened once or twice…I mean…well…it just did happen, with Gabrielle at the vigil. If she’s still alive than maybe my brother…” She trailed off and swallowed hard. It wasn’t fair to make all her grief and all her fearful hopes his responsibility, but she couldn’t help herself.

Miles knew that he needed to be just a little bit more understanding towards people and their problems. And for the most part, he was. He wanted to be able to solve every crime and close every case that came across his desk but that was not the reality. An unfortunate truth. This was the worst part of his job. The discouraged faces. Miles could see all of the hope vanish from her eyes when he told her that he had nothing. Perhaps if they were somewhere else things would be different. Ashbourne was a small town with the habit of swallowing people whole. The majority of the disappearances were the result of people ignoring the warnings. Do not go into the woods. Do not go swimming in the lake. Do not go into the cemetery at night. Wasn’t right to blame the victims but in some cases there was no way around it. They should’ve known better. Miles wondered if her brother had been one of those individuals with fake bravado and a reckless nature. She started to talk. A voice so small and mournful that Miles felt his own throat tighten. 

@d-leviathan

It wasn’t that she particularly sought to bother one Miles Jackson more than anyone else that worked at the Watch Station. It was just that Miles had the unfortunate habit of tending to be on duty when her schedule offered her time to pop over. She wondered if it eased the annoyance at all that she usually brought fresh baked goods from The Mix-Up with her, but even if it didn’t she wasn’t going to stop. Like clockwork she’d shown up every day since her brother’s disappearance. Had anyone heard anything, seen anything, found his backpack or his favorite pair of eggplant colored shoes? She had no body to bury, no certainty to trigger the grieving process in earnest. All she had was ritual, and she supposed that was true for most of the town. All any of them had was the ritual of existence they’d built, trying to find tiny moments of purpose between the sweat soaked nightmares and the worry that your neighbor loved one might be the next one to go missing in the woods.

There was no doorbell to cheerfully announce her arrival, but she found Miles at the desk, sorting through enough incident reports and sightings and complaints and concerns to wallpaper the largest house in town ten times over. “Busy day?” she greeted, eyeing the piles of paperwork and seeing the same extra bought of exhaustion in his eyes as she knew was weighing down her own limbs. When nightmares hit the whole town at once things got a little crazy at The Watch. Paranoia and lack of real rest…bubbled together with fear had people seeing Hellhounds in their ovens and turning on their neighbors with panicked suspicion. “They’re double chocolate,” she continued, pointing to the brownies. “Figured everyone could use an extra pick me up.”