damion killgrave

List of Damion's Character Tropes

President of the "I Love My Wife" Club

"Deadpan Humor is Used to Barely Conceal Zest for Death study finds"

Suicide Watch™ (funny compilation)

"Father of Dead Child Becomes Father to Children Who Also Shouldn't be Alive"

Widower

Hip Slang 1980s Edition

Son of Divorce

"Home Depot theme song Mysteriously Plays whenever Man Sees Hammer"

Foodie

Catholic When it Counts

"Spotify Checks on Sad Man After Seeing Born to Die played for 72 Hours Straight"

He moves to the next one in the garage, door wide open to let in the air and light, an eye on the street every so often. Who knows? Maybe the Zodiac was still out on the prowl somewhere. In the meantime, the two open boxes awaited in front of him. Kid.  Kiddo. Smart move to put those names in different colors. Now, which one was the food processor going to go to... The one who doesn't cook but is married to one who does? Or the girl who is probably going to use it for anything but food?

"...Sorry, Fred. I’ll make it up to you with the pasta maker."

“i can’t answer that.” the statement that she’s been circling around for twenty years, back once again, ingrained into every conversation that she might have had the opportunity to call nice. the specific calculations run on damion killgrave, down to the minutes he sat alone in a public bar were noted, a computer algorithm left running at all times. the one in her head still needed some fine tuning, but she could give it a shot. “not for you. but a guy like you…”

she took another sip of her wine, testing if it was the sort of thing that was going to come back to haunt her. the last thing she needed was to lose her position. she hadn’t risked it for her father, what made him different? “an award winner with good industry standing might be able to just age out of the system. barring major scandal or upset.” that was all she had to say on the matter, no more details could be passed out without the red flags already waving in her peripheries threatening to catch fire. his phrase was tossed back at him with hollow inflection, a cheers with no real weight, “thanks to the academy.”

"Sure." He understands. He gets it. There's half of a heart behind the short-lived smile that flickers on and flickers off of his face. "You're off the clock." It's more than that. He doesn't need to be told about legalities in anything. He's probably better off not knowing the details, anyways. Would it still count as a surprise if he's actively trying to get cancelled? Is it more of a goal that's just out of reach? Maybe there's an answer at the bottom of his glass, but the tide changes in the same instance as the drink shifting closer to his lips does.

He was right. He was better off not knowing. Anyone else would take it with great relief, even gratefulness. Congratulations; you're going to live. Whoopee. The news is no news at all, a confirmation of what he already knew but didn't want to face, sitting like a lead weight on his shoulders. Both of his hands cup around his glass while his forearms rest on the bar counter.

"Not even a bunch of duds can send a guy like that packing, huh?"

“almost half way through them!” she was chipper as she said it, as though there was no realization to be had in the fact that she had lived twenty-four years of her life with little in the way of worry or hardship. there was no meaning to the age, as there was no fear of the up coming ones. sometimes it was just that simple, she lived each day as well as she could. and surrounded by as many people as she could possibly have. 

“yeah it’s her and theo. i wanted him to work on this but we don’t really have any stunts so—” she shrugged, wished she could have written some in so that they had an excuse to have everyone together on the same set every once in a while. but there was, as always, more time for that in the future. “unless you’d like to request one!” the realities of her role as director dawned don her one more, that she was responsible for making everyone feel comfortable. there was nothing in the world she was better at, really. “i didn’t think it was necessary but you should always feel safe.”

the sentence is paired with a grin that’s so heartfelt and genuine, conveying everything that she couldn’t yet get the words in order for. the expression melted as she listened to him continue to talk, slipping from happiness to a tender sadness that she couldn’t hide even if she’d tried to. she was an open book of expressions, listening to him skate around the conversation topics that she was trying to tap into. “not method.” and he didn’t need her help, recoiling from advice, and she pulled back just as much, unwilling to accept an upset actor on her set. “sorry, i’m sorry. i didn’t know, i just wanted to—” it hasn’t caused a scene in the slightest, but she still treats him as gently as she thinks its possible. “can i get you a tea or anything to help?”

"Can't say I would, but you're running the show here. Have at it." While they're at it, maybe he could just go ahead and say the lines, too. Forget about the fact that he'd have to be a twenty-something from the sound of things, but if they could pull it off, more power to them. That wasn't really the focal point, though. Ingrid was doing her best to motivate and inspire and do all the things a decent director should do, but it's not making much of a dent. It's not her fault. It just is the way it is, the way that it has been, the way that it has become. To feel safe seemed counterproductive at this point. "Yeah, I'm not planning on making any calls to OSHA."

She smiles at him, and it falls heavy on his eyes, the weight building enough to drop them as he readjusts in his seat. Somewhere out there, maybe in one of those parallel universes, is that same kind of smile waiting for him. A look only a dad can get when he comes home from work. Hearing her say sorry just makes him tug on the hem of his shirt, a struggled sigh release, before his hand shakes. "Don't sweat it." He just wants to put the spotlight back on the scene, pull it back from being on things that should have never seen the light of day.

"Look, I like that take you have. You know, the one about appreciating what you have. Let's roll with that and call it a day." Make it easy. Make it quick. "Don't you have clubs to get to or a skating rink after this? Something?"

his comment procures a curious look, as though she can’t quite pinpoint where to categorize the response she’s given. it has all the marks of sarcasm, who would be excited about their death. but there’s something else to it, that makes her wonder if she’s supposed to take it seriously. could he really not wait? the note is flagged, the first instance in a potential downward spiral that she now must keep an eye on. 

“some people make speeches. it just depends.” it was personality dependent. she could try and predict such things based on demonstrated traits, but some people surprised her. begged for mercy when they should have been brave, insisted on a final statement where before silence had prevailed. “hard to tell until the moment is there” her world is built on some certainty, she might be able to drink wine with a movie star and predict when he might die. but she’d never considered what he would do with the knowledge. “but that won’t be for a while.”

"Sure. Sounds like a real think-tank." It's hard to escape watching cancellations, at least one. He thinks about those times when his parents were alive, being contracts ever since he was born, the child of stars with the thought of losing one or both tucked away in the back of his mind growing up. The irony of it all is that they beat the system. Died naturally. He won't be that lucky, but that's the hope. Natural death means it'll stretch out. It'll take time he doesn't want to spend anymore. It'll take another forty years to reach the acceptable passing age, and that's worse than anything Prometheus can think of. He's positive of it. She has the impression he wants the opposite. There are words that trickle down to the tip of his tongue before they're scraped off the back of his teeth, downed by a nod of his head.

"Thanks to the Academy, right?" Trophy at home just for Wynn to look at. It's the only consolation prize he has to an extension of his own mortality. "What's the word?--How much time does a guy like me have left?"

she sips her drink, resists the childish urge to announce that she never said it was a dream. but there was no reason to reiterate a point that damion already understood, even in his own perspective. it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. it could be close on the right day, after the right wave of releases had hit theaters, but it wasn’t the end. they both knew it.

“go solo?” she doesn’t remember much of that part, which doesn’t mean it’s that at all. she might not remember the couples quotas for any variety of reasons, least of all the amount of people who are unattached at the moment. solo might have any version of meanings, and it’s not her job to negotiate the specifics of a contract but— “they’ve been more lenient about broadcasting. if that’s what you mean.”

surprisingly the public has taken well to the adjustment. there’s no need to oversaturate the market with random breaking segments of murder. it’s easier to keep the data in order when there’s a schedule, she tries not to think about it past that. “i guess you could ask to have people banned. i don’t know why you would.”

"Lenient." That's not the word he'd choose when it came to Prometheus as a whole, especially when they were narrowing the topic down to the ripe, old topic of cancellations. But he nods. The movement alone makes his feeling transparent in a way that's much more accepting than an act of passive offense. "Cool beans. Can't wait."

He's taken his glass in his hand, twisting and turning it around slowly just to feel the motion of the liquid. It's not to be assured of some control in the universe, resigning that thought long ago; it's assurance that somewhere out there there's a chance for stability, that at least basic physics is solid, can't be compromised. He hopes that a rule like banning people is something like that. "Yeah." He doesn't question her back on her lack of understanding; better leave that hornet's nest alone. Not his place, anyways. "I guess I'm not a fan of the whole send-off thing. Never been a huge good-bye guy. Who knows what to say at those things?"

she could spend the rest of the day in her new office, taking in the space that had been created for her. she knew that the details would just continually unfold themselves, everything had to have been thought-out in twenty different ways, positioned just so. because that’s how everything was meant to be in this house of theirs. she rests a hand on her desk, smooth and awaiting the montage of late nights that it will carry. patiently prepared for the work to be done. before she can kick back another joke he cuts to the chase, the wood warms under her palm, it’s all been meant for her. 

there’s really nothing she can say that compares to the word. of course it’s made of rosewood. of all the possibilities in the universe, she is somehow found herself lucky enough to be on the receiving end of the right ones. “no—” she finds her words on impulse, cutting off his attempt to leave before he has a chance to actually make the move. “stay for dinner.” she doesn’t know what was planned, if she’s ruining some other surprise as though anything needed to be added to this. “we could,” she glances to julian, trying to read his expression through the beats of her heart, the veil of kindness that’s been dropped over her eyes. “well there’s room.”

The sharpness to the no catches him off guard, puts the brakes on the exit plan. It's not sharp like jagged glass; it's sharp like someone grabbing his arm, squeezing tight enough to cut off the circulation. His eyes follow hers, beat for beat, looking at Julian, gauging the move of the night's trajectory. "I could come b..."--is that a threat being shot at him?--"Yeah, I could... eat. Why not?" Brown eyes spare him after the caution is heard loud and clear, glancing back at the director as his nod is thrown at the girl of the hour. There's something said between them that doesn't require them to move their lips, not a single word voiced, in a language that's some radio frequency pitched for one set of ears. This is a concept Damion has known before, but he is shut out of this one, only gathering the hand that brushes Claudia's arm as he makes his exit, maybe to the kitchen, maybe to Hell. Honestly, there's no telling with that one.

"Fun guy," he nods over at the doorway before breathing out, a newfound smile surfacing by the time he breathes in. The mood is lifted, easier going, more relaxed now that it's just two. "So, what’s the verdict? Think you'll get some work done in here?"

with every birthday that passed, she’d learned to stop dreading it. stop forgetting that it was in fact a date that was worth the pause, even sometimes worth celebrating. it had taken years to understand, a slow uphill battle from the fourth of july party where she choked on strawberry ice cream to the dinners that her uncle had always been sure to take her to. and now, it continued upward, as she stood in what had for so long been luis’s room— the great monument to their mourning and his legacy. the loss that had forever permeated the house, even long after they had hoped to come to terms with what had happened. 

and here it was. an office, lined with camera, furniture perfectly slotted into the spaces where ghosts had once had the opportunity to roam. her office. the sheer weight of the work paralyzed, choked the jokes that she might have otherwise been able to make as she looked from damion and julian, and back again. as though it were unthinkable that while she might finally be worthy enough for a birthday dinner, this kind of present was still unrecognizable. “you built the desk?” her voice is quieter than it should be, some emotion lodged in her throat and making it impossible to be sure what she really should say. “should i get the heating pad out for you? or will some advil do the trick?”

He nods his head tentatively, eyes still shooting a quick glance to Julian as if there's some unspoken permission that needs to be checked in on. For such an intense guy he seems a little easier going here, and maybe that’s what’s making this whole thing feel off. He better just stick with Claudia, feels safer that way, even when she's busting his chops. "That's real funny, kiddo. I'll have to dig up Johnny Carson and tell him he's got some stiff competition over here." But he offers a short smile back before his hands slip into his jeans. "Guess I'll live to see another day." And that's enough to make him silently sigh before he turns to take a last look at the hardwork, the desk that's evenly varnished, functions for days, fits like a glove in the new digs.

"Rosewood," he tells her, tilting his head over at it as if that's the proof, just in case they had forgotten what they were all talking about. It's a detail that she might get a kick out of. It has that personal touch to it. But he's no salesman. It's a one-word fun fact that gets thrown out like it could be the start of a conversation or sink like the Lusitania. He lets it bob around for a second before he gives a final nod, shoulders shrugging. "I better leave you to it before the third-wheel vibe kicks in gear."

The moment they were told they would be having a girl, Damion couldn't imagine having a son. It was going to be purple walls and unicorn stickers for the first few years until Kit could get away with holding a hammer. A decade later, it would be the closest thing he could get to what life would have been like had the very opposite had happened. Instead of a dead daughter, he had the faintest glimpse of a live son.... in-law. Never could quite be pushed over into flesh and blood territory, not with directions given instead of suggestions asked for. But between the strict voice and persistent attitude, he could get away with it, read between the lines for what was, knowing the glue that kept them together in the same room without yelling at each other.

They were finally done. Just in time. Damion hung back in the kitchen, hearing the door of the house open up with Julian there to greet who was walking in. He wasn't told to leave like he thought he was going to, but the urge to bolt was in the air. Special day for the kiddo. He'd tell her happy birthday and get out of the way, let her enjoy what had come out of it, let her guy get full credit. Only hitch was Julian's nod over to him, his share there to take, included like it was some bait to an unknown trap.

"...Yeah," he spoke with hesitation, gauging the dark eyes suspiciously before sliding over to Claudia, a more comfortable face to land on, softening. "Nothing to it. Just FYI, if the two of you ever move out of this place, good luck on hauling that desk out of here. I have two hernias and a slipped disc."

“about what.” the sigh accentuates the question, she wonders if it could be misinterpreted that she has simply never had a hard time with her dad. she knows that if anyone could say that wasn’t true, it would have to be damion killgrave. well anyone living at least— a cold hard fact, which didn’t make it any easier to swallow, and she wouldn’t ever find the will to say. “i don’t have star potential.” certainly, if one subscribed to the alternate universes theorum, there was some timeline in which madeline delaney was doing very well as a contract, she tried not to spend much time in the realm of possibilities. 

“witness quota?” the idea perked her interest more than the note about her personal life, partially because it tips a hand towards her work and partially because it gets her off the topic. sometimes, things are as simple as that. “there’s no such thing in either department or acting contracts.” or any contracts, though she was less sure on the fact. “it’s never been needed. you can request certain people be present.”

He shakes his head slowly, taking the cue to leave Myles off the table. In ways she'd already have to know, there wasn't much of an impetus to talk about his parents when they were in their prime either. Every so often a reporter would find their way to him when he was still in town, sniffing around, only making him pick up and leave when he could. He wouldn't say they're the same for that reason right there, choosing different paths to walk down, hopefully not winding up at the same destination. "It's not all that it's cracked up to be, anyways."

He goes back to his drink, an attempt to enjoy it made in good faith. It's a tall order when the atmosphere is clouded with the idea of familiar faces watching him in the final throws of life. "No, thanks. I'm doing peachy as is." There's nothing else he wants to add to that bit, stares at the darker color that's in the glass before him in the pause. "Does that mean you can request to go solo?"

“nasa wants physics.” wasn’t that something. besides, she had no real answer. wouldn’t it make sense to get away. that would be admitting that there was something to get away from. that she couldn’t stand it in the town she’d been raised in, that she needed to get away from her parents. she didn’t want to. “besides i’m not done with my degree yet. i couldn’t go if i wanted to.” chained to california, at least until she attached another few syllables to her name. 

“it’s all in the last name.” another factor to take into account. she was a miller, not a delaney. he was killgrave through and through. there was no changing the labels that the public attached to you, just as once you picked your name that was that. she’s never thought of her life as a trajectory towards picking up her father’s legacy. she wonders if damion thought the same, and if asking the question falls somewhere in the interview clauses she’s signed. “it is. it’s what i’m good at.” and she worked hard to keep up with it, adapting with the curves that the new computer systems were trying to twist into her equations. “there’s nothing wrong with prometheus right now.”

"Right, right. I get it." NASA and the physicists, not just a catch-all for smart people like MENSA was. He's trying with as much as he has left to try with, and these days it just isn't cutting it. He settles for nodding along to her reasoning, taking some note that he's not sure will ever matter in the grand scheme of their conversation builders here. All that truly registers in a deep way is just how much time has really past. She still remembers seeing her passing by in the hall when she was waist-high, too young to be out in the world all on her own. In a way, he still thinks that's true, but he finds that's with a lot of others, too, those that are even older than her.

"Does your dad ever give you a hard time about it? Off-screen?" He doesn't watch Myles' show. He's never been a fan, but he's seen the clips, seen the commercials for the upcoming shows when he can't find the remote. Every once in awhile he catches the punchline enough to get the gist of a monologue. For Damion, he takes another sip of his boulevardier before it gets set down on the cocktail napkin. "Yeah, Prometheus is just dandy, all right." He sighs. The gesture means nothing to him, the truest form of accepting defeat one can be attached to. "There's no rule that says you have to go to any of the cancellations, right? Something to fill a required witness quota?"

“einstein was actually a physicist,” she slides the wine closer to herself with a nod.  “my specialty is applied mathematics, i prefer having proofs in my equations it’s…” she realized she was already giving more information on the topic than was strictly relevant, or at least was being asked of her. people didn’t tend to care about the phd, not when it came secondary to a job in the department they all were dying to know about. he proved her point. the wine is sipped without thanks or cheers, even if it tastes marginally better than what she would have ordered for herself. 

“it makes sense that you are.” just because she’s learned the details of his personal life through confidential files doesn’t mean that she can’t discuss them with him. it’s no secret to hi who his parents were. “you’re a legacy.” and there was the matter of immediately signing on to high value productions, winning awards, landing from a precarious fall with both feet. “i can’t give advice. nda.” 

"Oh." And it stays like that for a moment, absorbing the fact that he just got whipped by a girl half his age. Everything about applied mathematics is comparable to giving a lecture on Hemingway to a chimpanzee. He'd like to think it catches, but that really wasn't a class he (what the kids these days would say) excelled in. "Right. No, I meant in general, but sure. I catch your drift. Physics isn't your bag." He took a small sip of his drink, taking that extra beat that the original didn't salve. "You're good with bringing all that back here? You didn't want to work for some place like NASA?"

But look who's talking. He hadn't thought about his own situation like that, continuing some legacy his parents went in for. He could have gone to New York, set up an architecture firm, the whole nine yards. It just didn't work out like that, though, and it never could without having roots out there. Missed the boat. "Yeah, I guess that's something we know a thing or two about." Only one difference. "Stay with your math, all right? That's good for you."

“fine.” she’s not exactly asking for him to buy her anything, and if the bartender really calls her into question the id is securely in her wallet. but still damion killgrave hesitates, upstanding. does she really even want a gimlet? she’s only running through every variation of a gin drink until she finds her own signature, is that so bad? it’s a numbers game, but people keep taking away what should be an easy list with their own opinions. that’s fine, she’s not at a point that she wants to argue it with a virtual stranger. and causing a scene leaves a poor taste in her mouth. “a glass of white zinfandel.”

“analyst.” as if that’s code for can’t say much more about it, which to some extent she can’t. he can hardly have access to information about himself let alone the generics of the job. “it’s okay.” it’s certainly not handy, it makes conversations like this far more difficult to navigate. she can’t gauge sincerity when it comes to her work, but it’s the topic she’d talked. “you’re not an actor.”

He still feels a little off about passing her a drink, but kids are always going to find a way to get it; it might as well be something of quality in a setting he's a part of. Oh, and the lower alcohol content plays a role. That, too. He nods over to the bartender, courteous and nowhere close to a commanding motion, just something that gets the job done. "Hey, if you have something from Sonoma county, we'll take that. Thanks."

While she answers him, he settles for his glass, hand around it as if to keep it company. He nods along to her short responses before the white zinfandel joins them. "That's great stuff. Last I heard you were giving Einstein a run for his money." He offers a lukewarm smile. Maybe it'd be warmer if he had heard it from somewhere else than the source of all the information he had about Chloe Delaney. Somehow his thoughts thread smoothly into how she tells him what he's not. There's an award with his name on it that says otherwise, a cinematographer and her director to back it up, but she's right. "Yeah, it's not my bag," he tells her. "I'm just a contract.” A sip is taken, glass is barely down before he goes on. “Any tips on this whole cancellation thing?"

There's also the kids.

Hey, you know what's been coming back to me lately? Haven't you ever seen some kid calling their mom or dad by their name? Makes you immediately think it's them, right? Who's this kid? Al Capone? Funny thing about it is I was that kid. For the record, I wasn't going through some rebel phase. I didn't have a prayer of turning into Butch Cassidy, all right? That wasn't ever me. I know it doesn't matter, now. That's not what I'm saying. It just stays with a guy when your mom tells you 'look, stop with all that mom crap. It's Bonnie. It's always Bonnie. Got it?' She wasn't all rainbows and butterflies is what I'm getting at. We weren't what you'd call close.

Toby was about the same. That's my dad, by the way, in case this whole first name only thing wasn't catching on. Between the two of them, he was funner to hang out with. As a kid, at least. He gave me my first Walkman. (Think of what would happen if the iPod had been made by MacGyver instead of Steve Jobs.) I got older, and he got less fun. Or he always was that way. What did I know? What's weird for a ten year-old to sleep at the Beverly Hills hotel with free access to room service instead of his place? It was only when he had, you know, company. I had no complaints.

By the time I made it to college, all I knew was I wasn't going to be like them. That's normal. No one wants to become their parents. It's about learning from their mistakes or something like that. Look, psychology wasn't my deal. I'm taking a wild guess here, but it sounds solid.

Can't say I broke the promise. Never did become like either one of them.

But you know something? I got close to the important parts. The whole... parent thing.

All right, there are some bright spots out there. Somewhere up there you noticed some kids mentioned. Yeah, that's them. They're not my kids, but when it's time for lights out, I'm hoping they get what I was trying to put down.

Nothing puts a bandaid on a shot to the gut, but they came close. Closer than anything. Sometimes it almost felt like it wasn't there.

Then there'd be your station on the radio. Someone would talk like they were from the Bronx and I could feel you get that twitch in your eye. You should have seen me in your office when I signed up. Don't laugh, but the door opened and I thought it'd be you giving me Hell.

I don't know if they'd get it, but you better believe I'd give anything to hear you yell at me.

So, that’s the gist. It's not that they weren't enough to make me stay. It's that this has all been on borrowed time from the jump. It’s bound to happen someday.

But not today. Some anniversary present that’d be. Getting me back. If you’d have me back. If I could make the cut up there, too. That part.