PRETTY BOY

“Roland park?” 

Flynn nearly scoffs, his face twisting into some crazed version of a smile.   

The story goes a lot like this: two boys lost, one boy found. 

Roland Park. The mere thought of his name makes the younger man mutter an expletive, want to shout the foul-mouthed words down Fable City’s streets and into the wealthier’s face. 

And how strange it is, to hate a man and respect him so. To see the man for the snake in snake’s skin that he is and have some divine appreciation for those who know exactly who they are, for those that make no apologies for being the men they have become. I have to apologize all the time, Flynn thinks. Where both of them had lost a mother, one had managed to make something of himself in spite of it.     

“I don’t make a habit of thinking about people who aren’t worth my time,” he lies. 

I think about him all of the time, the tired charm, the cold-blooded secret desires he stirs in me. To be more than I am. To never be what he has become. 

I must. 

how much do they reveal on social media? also, are they ever unwise in their social media use? this is completely an au if were all being honest with ourselves since realistically speaking, there’s no way flynn is going to waste his “hard-earned” dollars on anything as frivolous as a smart phone. boy walks around with a flip phone, and even that is a pos. however, if he were to buy a smartphone, i’d imagine he’d be pretty useless with his instagram. flynn absolutely has no idea how to use a filter, and hashtags are the definition of a foreign concept (hence the hashtag in snapchat). 

what kind of content do they like to post? he generally isn’t bothered by an aesthetic and just uses it to share fun moments in his life, times that have made him smile and laugh. i can’t imagine him posting anything wildly stupid or anything that would jeapordize his safety or would get him in trouble. also, he follows a lot of dog accounts. he just does. don’t ask me why. 

do they have anyone blocked? what would it take for them to block somebody? for sure, and he’s probably told them their blocked to their face. i’d gather roland is at the top of that list, but logan is also probably on it, among others. honestly, it’d probably take someone insulting/threatening him in real life for him to bother with blocking anyone, especially since he doesn’t exactly promote his socials and therefore not many strangers would slide into his dm’s and piss him off. which, actually, he’d probably just be flattered by.

Time: after 8:30pm. Location: town hall - back door. OPEN.

Nights like these, Roland wished he did smoke, because his fingers were itching to scratch or grab at something. The meeting had been a disaster, he’d barely said what he really wanted to say, and it was only getting clearer that he’d simply have to fend for himself. Relying on the people of this town was going to get him killed next – he shuddered at the image of his own body sitting in a pool of his own blood. Just like how Eric had met his bitter, pathetic end. 

The fresh air outside was helping him cool his head, however, and he’d just decided to take a couple more minutes before going back inside to clean up when he heard footsteps coming his way. In no mood to deal with anyone else’s objections or grievances, Ro made sure to keep his head down and his eyes glued to the screen of his phone.

“Sorry, I really can’t help you right now. If you have any complaints about tonight, you can feel free to leave a message with my secretary,” he cautioned, not bothering to look up at who it was standing near him.

Sorry, he says.

There’s a stillness to that word, the way it catches people’s attention. The way it ensnares Flynn in whatever is going to come next out of Roland’s Park’s pretty little mouth. He hadn’t meant to pause when he stepped beyond the back door’s threshold and into the night, not really, and yet when he looks down he finds his feet have stopped moving and his attention is trained on the only other soul around.

Funny how even when they didn’t want attention, the Woodlanders still stole it all.

“Please,” he scoffs, forgetting himself for a moment. He draws his gaze away from the businessman and busies his hands with digging around his pocket for his last cigarette and the small box of matches he’d grown so accustomed to carrying around. 

He considers, for a flash of a second, what his options are here. He could just leave it there, the scoff hanging between them like a cloud of smoke and fog to blur the lines of propriety. The danger with taking care, of course, is that the danger does disappear, it just hides, leaving him to skirt blindly along the edges, trapping him. 

Flynn had never been one for cages. 

He leaps.

“I would never burden them with the weight of our town’s many complaints.”  

TIME: 8:53PM LOCATION: Abandoned corridor, somewhere in the Town Hall STARTER TYPE: closed @fabledflynn

Slowly but surely, Valerie was beginning to assemble her organs. She, of course, was the brain - the centre piece, the cognitive powerhouse, responsible for playing the game and winning. Carter was proving himself worthy of being her senses - eyes and ears, touch and smell, going where she dare not. And Flynn? Well, he wasn’t hers. Yet. But he had potential. There was something with him that simmered underneath the surface - something raw and untapped. Given time, she was sure she could tug that those puppet strings and make him her hands. She only hoped he was worth the effort.

If not, she would pay richly for the pleasure.

Life sure was easier when you were rich.

Watching him dart out of the room after the meetings conclusion, Valerie kept a close eye - slipping out unnoticed herself. He might have had a head start, but the town hall was her kingdom. This was her domain - and here, no one could best her. Taking confidence and power from within its walls, she hunted on instinct, chasing him as they approached the exterior of the building. As he turned to look back - just once - she inclined her head, gesturing at him to wait. For a moment, she thought he would hurry away anyway - but she won. He paused long enough for her to catch up.

“Good evening.” She began, stilted politeness. Somehow, she doubted he was having a good evening - with accusations of guilt slung from both ends towards him. Inconvenient. She wasn’t about to let her muscle get locked away. “I have a job for you, if you’re interested. Don’t worry, nothing infringing on your little strays.”

There was nothing quite like the sheer weight of exhaustion, and Flynn bore it ten-fold.

It was strange for him, to have left his golden-souled counterpart anything other than smiling, anything other than glowing, but that was exactly what he’d done, and god damnit it showed. The moment he’d walked out of that room he’d felt the weight of it bear down on him like a cross to bear. The price of protection, he’d suppose, was a heavy weight to bear. For the strays, there was nothing he would not do. For Emme, though, he lift the whole world onto his shoulders, take apart all the pieces of himself and put them back together until he was Atlas reborn. 

He hadn’t meant to look back, but perhaps a part of him was hoping that she would walk out after him, some selfish, sadistic part of him would hope for some tainted, unholy version of heaven where no one is innocent. So, he turns, but it’s not an angel he sees trailing in his wake, rather the devil’s favorite.

It would figure darkness would follow in his footsteps.  And so when he hears that voice color the night’s air, he pauses. He listens. 

This, after all, was his life. 

Good evening, she says. The words turn his blood to ice. I have a job for you.

He moves forward, closing some of the space between them so that the shadows further mask them. If someone were to walk out of the meeting now they’d barely be able to see the pair. He considers not responding, considers just letting her say whatever it is she wants to say, considers listening just to walk away -- neither a confirmation nor a denial.

But silence speaks too, and words have always served him better.

He wets his lips before he begins, and cocks his eyebrow as if to say I’m unimpressed. 

“Keep talking.” 

If she knew his internal monologue on what’s deserved between either of them, if it was more than subtext, she’d say something about it being far from the truth of how the world works. Care isn’t dedicated by a measure of what’s deserved. Care isn’t given out on a scale of what someone’s worth, it’s belief. Belief for how the world should be. Belief that people need more. If Flynn or Emme were given what they were deserved, they’d lead far different lives (far different backstories without the mention of orphans. Him without a world or people that needed protection, her without a world she had to love so she wouldn’t first run away.)

She doesn’t miss the turned down gaze. If they were somewhere else, before there was a murder, before either of them were thought to be the culprits, they both could be more of the person the other needed them to be without making another uncomfortable, without feeling out of place when they sit here among talks of a dead man and blood on someone’s hands. She could be more herself if away from this place.

And maybe her words are a bit much, but the world changed (regressed) when there was as a death right in front of her, she needs trust here, trust in the people she knows well, that there is something she doesn’t have to fear. So she speaks to Flynn the way she does, doesn’t complain when he doesn’t step back away from her.

She doesn’t miss either the quiet way he says her name, the change in his voice. And her lips purse as she hears him, concern here too for where he’s found himself. She doesn’t believe Flynn would believe her if she spoke of the gentle parts of him, who he was. That people are more than what they think they are.

She leans far enough forward where she sits so she can look him in the eye, so he has to see her, and maybe look her way instead of a crowd searching for someone to blame, those with violence on their tongues. Her voice is definite, decided, “Because I know you,” is all the evidence she feels the need to share, even with all that’s happened and she knows she could be wrong about any of them. But unsure on so many things, she’s still someone that stumbles into the unknown with some odd determination, even here. She’d prefer to be in an unknown than a comfort zone, even if she does search for security. 

Even serious, there’s warmth in her expression, eyebrows raised, “Can you try to be safer here, Flynn?” a pause, still leaning forward, “If not for you, than for the rest of us that want to see you after this - without you being arrested.” Once said, she finally leans back, her gaze turning back to the small crowd for a moment.

Perhaps.

That’s what he wants to say, and he knows it applies so much more than she will ever realize. The two of them, they were stuck in that state of the great perhaps, teetering somewhere between friend and family, love and lover. They’d been swept up in the warmth of it all, a familiar face to spend the night... well, not with, but near. Somewhere between divine and devastating. 

Is this what being a sinner tastes like? To feel innocence so soft and pliable between calloused fingers and watch all that glitters turn to stone? 

Flynn, the sinner, Emme leans forward and looks into his eyes like he’s some kind of saint that’d she bow down and pray to. That’s the kind of faith he sees when she looks at him, and the weight of it furrows his brows, makes his already heavy shoulders slump ever so slightly more. With exhaustion, he pushes himself away from the table, needing space, needing a breath of air, of clarity. If he was anyone else, if he was watching from a bird’s eye view and he wasn’t the man he was, he might have chided himself from putting that distance between their bodies, for not leaning into her warmth. His exhale is shaky when it comes, slow and heavy as he lifts his hands and runs them through his hair.

For a moment, he drinks in the sight of her, looks at her while she looks at the crowd, but it doesn’t do him any good, and with his hands still resting there on the back of his neck, he looks away again. Looking at her hurt, and he was selfish enough to not endure it. Selfless enough to not let her catch him watching the purse to her lips, to not let her see how deeply the exhaustion creasing her face affected him. Were she anyone else, someone less soft, someone less breakable, someone he didn’t care for as much as he did, he would’ve commented on that exhaustion, would have chastised them for letting the death of one bad man tire them so. 

But this was Emme. And this was Flynn.

She deserved better, deserved more than the suspicion a friendship with Flynn would bring.

Alas --

He drops his hands and crosses them over his chest, forces himself to look into her eyes.

“I can’t make any promises, little dove.” He pauses, nearly bites his tongue, but goes on. “You know better than anyone what a restless heart does when it’s backed into a corner, and half this town thinks I should be behind bars.”   

A rational part of him knows that Flynn is the only one standing between him and ripping someone a new one and falling right into the stereotype they have of him.

Another wants nothing more than to teach him a lesson he’s clearly never learned about taking situations seriously. One forceful shove and that self-assured smile would be wiped clean off of his face, it’s more than a little tempting.

Caleb’s temper had always been quick to flare, his confrontational words enough to shut down any situation before it snowballed into something a lot worse than a shouting match. It worked with the way he carried himself, no one ever really dared to test his patience aside from Valerie, but that was something else entirely. For some who he considered a friend to do so was almost like a slap in the face, especially one who knew what he had to lose if he actually lost it.

In its own twisted way, that idiotic smile of his made Caleb pause for a moment. It reminds him that they’re friends, that he has something to lose if he makes a fool out of himself tonight.

Flynn actually cares, in his own way, and he’s just as shit at showing it as Caleb is. At least, that’s what he presumes. 

“You’re such a fucking smart ass, you know that?” He replies, his voice gruff and bitter, but any semblance of anger is gone from it. He backs away from the fight himself, taking a few backwards steps until he hits the wall again. He almost adds a thanks to his words before he thinks better of it, saving his sentimentality for a better time. “Do you do that with everyone? Run your mouth like that and get in the middle of fights?” 

Caleb was nothing if not predictable, at least by Flynn’s standards.

Every time a word passed the other man’s lips, every single time he rolled his shoulders with exhaustion or frustration, Flynn noticed. He noticed everything, the hidden smile in the lines of Valerie Drake’s face across the room, and the way her diamond-encrusted counterpart Lara walked through the crowded room like she owned the place. In a way, Flynn would suppose she did. She owned Caleb, to say the least, and Flynn would suppose that meant she owned everyone who cared about the fighter then as well, and the thief was surely among that crowd of people. 

If Flynn were to reach into the inner workings of his own mind to understand what it was about his neighbor that made him so protective, it would only make his grin grow wider, and he couldn’t afford to show that kind of affection here. 

So, he laughs, and in his own way, it’s the best protection he can afford to give Caleb. 

“If I weren’t, you’d never keep me around,” he says, watching as Caleb steps backwards, effectively surrendering his anger and leaving Flynn with the control. He was never sure whether or not he enjoyed that power he had over others, the many ways in which he was able to influence his friends, but such is the weight of the protector. Any means necessary. “And of course.”

A wink, a taunt. 

“If I didn’t, what would I be any good for?”

► GENERAL INFORMATION

FULL NAME: Flynn Rider.

NICKNAME(S): I’m sure there’s many, but none Flynn has chosen for himself.

AGE: 27.

DATE OF BIRTH:  April 1st.

GENDER: Cis-male.

NATIONALITY: American.

HERITAGE: Unknown to Flynn, but he has an Irish father and a Filipino mother.

OCCUPATION: Criminal, basically.

SEXUALITY: Pansexual.

► APPEARANCE

FACE CLAIM: Bob Morley.

HEIGHT: 5′11.

BUILD: Slender, lean muscle.

DOMINANT HAND: Right, but fairly ambidextrous.

HAIR COLOR: Black.

EYE COLOR: Dark Brown.

SCARS: There’s a million and one, but not any that Flynn is willing to tell stories about.

► BACKGROUND

HOMETOWN: Fable City, New York.

FINANCIAL STATUS: Considered quite poor, stray.

EDUCATION LEVEL: Graduated from high school.

FAMILY: All unknown.

EXTRA INFORMATION

JUNG TYPE: ENTJ.

ENNEAGRAM: 8W7 SP/SO.  TEMPERAMENT: Sanguine.

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Good.

SIN: Pride.

VIRTUE: Justice.

ELEMENT: Fire.

► THINGS DONE:

Broken a bone | Gotten stitches | Had a near-death experience | Invented something | Been hungover | Kissed someone | Slow danced | Been in a long-term relationship | Had sex | Had sex and regretted it | Had a one-night stand | Had a threesome | Experimented with their sexuality | Had a kid | Gotten married | Self-harmed | Been in a play | Received an inheritance | Been in a ship wreck | Lost a loved one (not through death) | Been dumped | Dumped someone | Smoked | Gotten high | Been slipped something in their food/drink | Won a contest | Won an election | Joined a sports team | Gone skydiving | Gone hunting | Been in a band | Had a job | Been fired | Been in a wedding party | Owned a pet | Seen a ghost | Skipped class/work | Learned an instrument | Gotten a noticeable scar | Sued someone | Been robbed | Been mugged | Been kidnapped | Been sexually assaulted | Been brainwashed/hypnotized | Gone more than one day without eating | Had a recurring nightmare | Been bullied | Bullied someone | Seen someone die | Attempted suicide | Been tied/chained up | Shot someone | Stabbed someone | Saved someone’s life | Cheated on someone | Been cheated on | Had a stalker | Been betrayed | Been in a fight | Been arrested | Been to a funeral | Had surgery | Broken someone’s trust | Gotten a tattoo | Used a fake name | Been tortured | Been abused | Been blackmailed | Had an attempt on their life | Gotten away with a crime | Gone on a road trip | Been in love

► HABITS:

It’s simple to say that Emme was one of those hoping this night would go differently. It’s in new ways, but she still looks like one of the few here bothered by the idea of a murder, no matter who it was - bothered by how death and people are being treated now. She’s still debating if she should have come here at all. The lack of contentment isn’t really about Eric at all, she knows who he was, the effect he had on the city and its divide, she can’t deny all things. It’s the idea of it all, the idea of being there, the idea of being one of those suspect to blame, idea of danger and somehow being a part of it. If it was her way, none in this room would be a murderer, or there’d be more peace here, less of a witch hunt.

She would disagree with Flynn, if she knew his thoughts of what’s ruining her. It wouldn’t be him, not in her thoughts. He’s not the only one here tonight that she knows so well, not the only that the police are certain she would run to help in any situation if they needed her, and they’re not wrong. And none of them, she’d consider a ruin, even when she has to know by now that it’s her friendships with those like Flynn that have brought her here. 

Flynn makes his way toward her like the two of them might as well be magnets pulling together. She expected him to see her when she first entered town hall, enough so that she doesn’t flinch away from the touch when it’s familiar, when the voice is. She’s at least not hard to find, as some odd sight next to this many woodlanders and still wearing some ragged t-shirt she paints in.

There’s a second where she almost leans into the hand on her waist. “I thought the same about you, earlier,” behind tired eyes, there’s fondness for the thief that’s been building for some time, found in a bitten back smile.

She doesn’t fully respond to his next words, expect through some halfhearted eye roll and the shake of her head, humor there. 

There’s a silence as she moves beside him, sliding to sit on top of the table he propped himself against, her feet swinging a bit when they no longer reach the ground. Her fingers knot together in her lap out of habit as she looks at him with real concern that she doesn’t feel the need to hide. Words more quiet with this conversation. “Can you please try to be more careful here. People may actually be starting to blame you.” She refers to his behavior here, to what he said before during the meeting.

He disagrees with her almost immediately. He should have known that she would react like that, should have known that she would show him an undeserved kindness, undeserved softness. I thought the same about you, earlier, as though he wasn’t one of the top names on the suspect list. It made him vaguely uncomfortable, the immediate and instinctive way she trusted him, believed in him. Flynn casts his gaze downward at her first words, unable to top the furrowing between his brows and the purse to his lips. He’d gone to Emme to smile, had gone to her because he’d been so sure that her belief in him would only serve to make him feel better, but there was a wrongness to it all. 

It’s her next words that drive his discomfort home. 

People may actually be starting to blame you, she says as she lifts herself from the ground and onto the table next to him. Perhaps a step back was in order, perhaps, but he’s so drawn to her that he can’t help but be selfish with her air. 

“Jesus, Emme,” is all Flynn can muster in response, his voice barely lifted above a whisper. 

His voice shifts when he says her name and he can’t help it, the way she tires him, the way she brings him to life; he says her name like a sinner tired of sinning might speak of his lord, with exhaustion, with shame, holy worship tainted by the remnants of spilled blood under the disciple’s fingernails.

Hearing Emme speak now, Flynn is finally able to see himself as a part of the darkness that plagues Fable City. For all the good that he might do her, for all the good that he might do others, she was a soul who deserved sun, who deserved lace and all other manner of soft, frilly things, and Flynn had hands stained with blood, teeth closer to a wolf’s canines than a prince’s straight grin. It was an exhausting realization, to see his darkness laid out beside her light. Slowly, he takes a deep breath in and lifts his gaze away from the tops of his shoes to look out at the crowd surrounding the two of them, at the many people who had accused him of being capable of such violence, of murder. He couldn’t even begrudge them for it, for every single one of them could have been right. Flynn would have killed Eric if given the opportunity, would have put a gun to the back of the other man’s skull and pulled the trigger. Every accusation that poured forth from their lips had come fully justified, and yet here he sat, a single soul still capable of believing him above the bloodshed. 

“What makes you think I’m not to blame?” 

As angry as he may have been, Caleb had no intention of ill will towards whoever threw his name out. A less than rational and somewhat heated conversation was better suited for his methods, but he was quickly cut off by someone he considered a friend before they could get another word out.

Flynn Rider, in all his mischievous glory, stood before him with a smile that Caleb wanted nothing more than to wipe off in his current situation. He, of course, was living up to his name and moniker, annoying him and likely everyone else in the room to no end. Though, he was slightly relieved that Flynn had managed to cut through the tension like a knife through butter. Still, Caleb was more than a little put off by his behavior, wanting to know just why he was deemed more guilty than the rest. They all had their motives and it was common knowledge that none of them had truly liked Eric anyways.

“I’m not in the mood for one of your jokes right now, Flynn.” His voice is tight with irritation, fist clenched tight as his sides despite never having used them in a fight for his pride since before his fall. “I didn’t come here to get thrown under the bus, I want answers too.”

Most of all, Caleb just wanted to go back to his own life where he didn’t have to be so paranoid that everyone was watching his every move, waiting for a slip up that wouldn’t happen but eventually gaining some sort of information that they would hold over him.

“Are you going to get out of my way or not?”

Perhaps under better circumstances Flynn would have been more understanding.

Perhaps.

But Flynn had never been very good at putting things to rest.

He could have, maybe even should have taken a step to the side. He still could have made some snide joke -- After you, my liege -- and yet, he can’t. He smirks knowingly instead, taking in each and every word that spills past Caleb’s lips, carefully considering each syllable, weighing every word and giving it the due it deserves. Maybe it’s the whole being accused of murder thing, but Flynn finds himself unable to not taunt his friend, to not poke and prod at the aggravation and frustration so clearly evident in his stance. 

“Or what, Caleb?” The corners of his lips twitch, twisting his smile just enough that most people wouldn’t be able to tell if he was genuinely trying to start something or if he was just screwing around. “What if I don’t move?”

His words are playful, and while he had considered stepping closer the his counterpart, he did take a single step backwards when he’d finished with his taunting. But that smile. It was a hard thing to shake, and Flynn knew it would still piss Caleb off. 

That would be entertainment enough.  

“You really ought burn out some of that heat. The threat of violence is just radiating off of you right now, man.” He pauses, bringing his hands up to his chest almost mockingly. “Now I know you’d never throw a punch outside of the ring, but most people don’t know you like I do. Folks are gonna get the wrong idea, start thinking you’re the hot-headed, violent sort.”

Flynn has always been good at blurring the lines between what is right and what is wrong.

Tonight is no exception. 

It was really no wonder, then, that in a moment where he was meant to be in a state of panic, he was eerily calm. At least for now, he feels what can only be described as satisfied, and as a man that walked through life in a near constant state of dissatisfaction Flynn has no intention to let go of this newfound emotion. It’s an odd thing to be content in the wake of death, but there’s a degree of freedom that comes with the mayor’s spilt blood. In a way, it almost feels right, feels justified. He’s sure it won’t last long, this state of peace amongst all of the chaos, so for now he smiles. For now, he enjoys the bloodshed. 

For now, he seeks the one soul he knows will keep the peace, the one soul who always keeps him smiling. 

He ducks between bodies and around conversations, never failing to notice how each set of eyes falls on his smile with contempt. Flynn spots her, not that it’s hard to in a room barely full, and drinks in the sight of such a light. It was a strange sight, Emme exhausted and confused, surrounded on all sides by sin and sacrilege. She didn’t belong here, this much he is absolutely sure of, but he can’t help but be glad Roland summoned her, that somewhere along the way he fate had been tied enough to his own that she would be brought to this dark place. There’s a gross sin in that pleasure though, that guilty little voice in the back of his head shouting She doesn’t belong here. You’re ruining her. As he moves towards her, step by small step closing the distance, there’s that tangle of guilt and pleasure dancing through him. 

Emme’s back is to him when he finally reaches her, and for only a fraction of a moment he considers what this display of friendship in this room will mean. But by now she is right there and he can’t help it. 

He does as he must always do; he blurs the line. 

A careful hand on her waist, he says over her shoulder “I wouldn’t have expected to see you here, little dove.” It’s soft, the way he touches her. As if somehow she makes him soft, as if somehow she cures him of all his proverbial sins. He pauses then, and moves away from her, giving her space she didn’t ask for, and props himself on the edge of one of the many tables shoved against the wall. 

“Tell me the cops don’t think I would ever let you stain those porcelain hands of yours.” 

Roland calling a meeting and placing the murderers under the same roof once again seemed like the beginning of some sort of sick joke that Caleb didn’t want to be a part of, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him despite the voice in his mind screaming at him to reconsider his choices. He had quietly slipped into the room amidst whispering and and suspicious glances, situating himself neatly near the exit and by the corner. It was a perfect getaway spot for when this whole meeting eventually evolved into a screaming match between all the suspects, something that he had no intention of partaking in. When the accusations started, Caleb had never expected anyone to point their finger at him, blinking in sheer surprise as clear disbelief invaded his features.

A part of him was hurt that people thought he was capable of doing something to Eric, let alone killing him. Though another part understood considering his line of work as well as his habit of shutting everyone out of his life. He briefly considered leaving right then and there, but he knew it would make him look far more guilty than he did now. The scowl on his face clearly did nothing to discredit the allegation, but he stood his ground no less. “What is this? A witch hunt? I’m not the killer. Do you really think I’d do something like that?”

It comes on very suddenly, an onslaught of cruel voices and whispered turned weapons.

Flynn, stupid, big-mouthed, more-confident-than-he-deserved-to-be Flynn Rider, had spoken out without giving much of a thought to his audience, without giving much thought to the fact that blood was on someone’s hands and he couldn’t afford to have these people think it was his palms that were stained. He hadn’t really meant to speak out so loudly, but when you’re the first to so much as breathe after someone like Roland Park spoke, all eyes turn in your direction. Flynn had always been good at entertaining, but somehow he’d forgotten that this was not the moment to crack a joke, that he ought to bite his tongue and slink back into the shadows. 

It’s this moment, where a room full of eyes cast their darkening gazes towards him, that is fresh in Flynn’s mind when he hears Caleb’s agitation from somewhere behind him. A joke is fresh on his tongue, inappropriate amusement. Carefully, he looks between Caleb and the other soul misfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of his ire. 

“Come now, Beastie, we all know you’re a big softy.” Deftly he slips into the space between them, cutting off Caleb’s sight line, forcing him to focus on the entirely inappropriate smile Flynn now donned. “You’re reputation is still in tact, don’t worry.”

It was really too bad he had never been any good at doing what he should. 

It was just so much more fun this way. 

“Emme?” he says, momentarily flustered. “What do I think of Emme?”

Quickly, a nervous tick perhaps, he brings his hand up and runs it through his already mussed locks. He thinks briefly back to the last time that he saw her, when he’d hidden stolen paints behind his back and told her to close her eyes while putting out her hands. He doesn’t think about how easy it is for her to trust him, about how he has no idea what a girl so soft sees in him, about how her light constantly makes sure he does not drown in his own darkness. He remembers smiling like an idiot when she couldn’t see only to control his own happiness the moment he put the few tubes into his open palms. Are these the blues you were looking for? he’d said, pretending not to hear the hope in his voice, pretending he didn’t feel his chest swell with pride when her face lit up with a smile.

Yes, they like to pretend. They were just so good at it.

“I think she’s exactly the type to believe in fairy god mothers, so the nickname suits her.” 

He shrugs. He pretends. He goes about his day. 

It’s easier this way. 

“What do I think of the Sheriff?” he says, eyebrows immediately arching before Flynn even has the chance to consider his emotions. Agitation and vague amusement, those are the only words that could possibly describe his initial reaction to the name Logan Walker. The man had a habit of making repeated attempts to push Flynn’s buttons, usually only to end up with his own pushed. The man’s a joke, is what Flynn really wants to say. He’s useless. “I think he should look into buying a really expensive moisturizer. I could even pick one up for him if he can’t afford it.” 

A smile flashes, a close-lipped one that spoke too clearly of mischief, the kind that would get him in trouble sooner or later. 

“Those frown lines of his are really not doing him any good. Nobody’s going to confess their crimes to someone who looks like they’re in need of some good botox, after all.”