⌠ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ⌡

@georgebyrne

The day had long melted into evening, and once again, George found himself in the very place that had encouraged all of his prior transgressions. Not a single one would find a place in conversation, a hard truth to digest, but the lot of them had grown used to it. 'Don't ask, don't tell' meant something entirely different to a Byrne. Plausible deniability may as well be etched across each of their headstones. That's what the liquor was for. And the coke. And the oxy. Because then he didn't need to talk about it. George had settled at the bar by himself, neither of his brothers, sisters, or regular accompaniment around for the time being. He'd pulled a smoke from the soft white pack, pressing it between his lips and giving it a light as he'd ordered a Gin, neat. A brand that he'd had special ordered specifically for days like these. It wasn't until he'd received his own drink that he'd noticed the woman who sat next to him, ordering her own... Or two. "Rough day, ay', lass?" George spoke into the silence, "Ye' arn't doin' ye'rself any favors drinkin' that shite." And then he brought his glass to his lips, looking to the bartender and tipping his head into the direction of the dark haired woman; The good stuff, on me.

#youngbyrnes

The winds bit against his cheeks, promising an explicit flush atop his flesh as he eyed those with him. This was a mess, but it seemed their circumstances were left in fates hold as he pulled his coat tighter around his body. They reasonably had about two miles till the side of the lighthouse would grace their gazes, and Duke had every intention of making the hike–with or without everyone included. “You uh look cold, here.” Producing a beanie from his pocket, he tossed it to them before sighing. “We gotta keep moving, if we linger for too long, it’ll only get colder and worse out.” Not to mention the stiff limbs, and unpromising looking clouds above. “Come on…” But just as he spoke, the pelting flakes picked up, causing the man to duck under a tree as everyone remained closely huddled together. They weren’t gonna make it to the lighthouse, not if this weather persisted. “Got any ideas?”

The man, Duke, pulled the hat from his pocket and tossed into some chicks direction. Whether she'd managed to catch it was beyond him. The man stopped paying attention immediately, pausing instead to produce a pack of smokes from his pocket. He'd draw one in silence, the butane lighter springing to life while he turned his back to the whipping wind. The youngest of the Byrne brothers was, of course, thoroughly intoxicated. Still with his wits about him, because he wasn't a some fucking tosser who couldn't hold his liquor, he'd remained a bit more warm and toasty than the others. "Yea', ay' got an idea. Feck th' lighthouse 'n' find somethin' closer. Ay'nt gonna turn us away if we go knockin' on someones door, are they?"

@georgebyrne

Stopping by the hospital was first on George's list of things to do that morning. Benjamin had all but demanded he deliver sustenance to the two of them (though he was sure Bella wouldn't see a crumb), and the youngest of the Byrne brothers felt compelled to check in on his sister, anyway. They'd all been lucky that she wasn't hurt worse, though George's anger flared the harder he thought about it. Any harm that ever befell his family only helped to fuel him and what he did. But now wasn't the time for that. He was on brother duty. Though he had the contraband burrito tucked into his coat, the man decided to stop by the cafeteria to see about grabbing some juice, and perhaps some breakfast that Bella would be allowed to have. He wasn't expecting someone to grab his attention. Most people didn't, but that didn't necessarily mean he'd berate them for it. Depending, of course, on their level of competency. "Ay'." George stopped, turning at the edge of the table to face the woman who'd called out to him. "A brother. Wit' a name, non' the less." Icy blues worked her over, taking in her appearance while he tried to put a name to a face. "She's doin' just fine. They'd do well te' let her out b'fore my brothers start gettin' antsy." George shrugged. "Ye' were at our party, weren't ye'? Ye'r not Juliette, so that'd make ye' Poppy, then." Bushy brows lifted, "Tough broad then, aren't'ya."

Out of all the things that could possibly happen to Julian, this was one of the most ironic ones. Since moving to Bayfield, he’d been laying low. At least, to some extend. After all, he had an agenda and as much as his impulsiveness often got the best of him, he had managed to stick to his plan so far. But walking down the street and literally seeing a wallet slip from someone’s pocket and land on the pavement in front of him had to have almost been a joke of fate. He paused briefly, as if to check whether he was being watched, whether this may be some sort of trap of the school-yard kind (though, quite frankly, he quite enjoyed the idea of the FBI hiding behind a bush waiting to pull a noose around his foot the second he stepped close). 

As you might expect, it wasn't all that often that someone called out to George in order to purposefully gain his attention. When he walked down the street, most people left him alone, save the one or two who were not put off by his brash demeanor, or the fact that he was a Byrne. He tried not to dwell on it. It didn't necessarily bother him, but there were days where sideways glances and whispers made him want to physically snap at the next person to walk past him. Today wasn't terrible. He wasn't feeling any specific way about anything. Might have even considered himself to be even tempered, for the time being. Who was to say how the day would round out, but for now at least, the public remained safe, and neither Jensen nor Ben would need to help sully his temper. George's steps slowed considerably before he'd actually stopped. His hands had been stuffed into the pockets of his long wool coat, dark leather wrapped around his fingers to keep them from the cold. Did he want to turn around? Was any business some stranger had with him even worth his time? Quite expensive littering, hm? Littering? What the actual fu- The man slipped a hand from his pocket and felt around the butt of his pants, the warn wallet missing from it's home in his pocket. His jaw set beneath a soft grind of his back teeth, and George considered momentarily whether his property had magically jumped out of his possession, or if this was some attempt to make acquaintance with the man over some petty happenstance. Is George Byrne paranoid? Abso-fucking-lutely, and that would remain until the day that he died. "Fookin' decent of ye', ay, brot'er?" His brogue rang out, and he spun on his heel, waiting for the man to approach him, less he waste any energy on this inconvenience. George held his hand out, palm to the heavens, brilliant blues baring into the stranger while he watched him like a hawk. "How'd'ye know? Tak’n a peek inside already, then?"

The Record shop was a good interim place for her to work. She hadn’t yet admitted to Rich that in her pursuit to find him that she had dropped out. Instead she fabricated that she took classes online and that’s what made her move easy. She was also equally surprised to being hired as a clerk being fairly new in town. It made more sense when she realized she would be shadowed for the most part. Humming along she alphabetized the vinyl records in chronological order. After she swept the store her renowned shadow left her to her own vices in the record store. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that there was a camera somewhere watching her every move.

George Byrne had started his day off with a bit of a headache. It could have been worse. He could have rolled over with a skull splitting migraine and a need to empty the contents of his stomach into the nearest receptacle... But his hangover had been mild. Thankfully. He had shit to do today and none of the things on his list involved nursing the betrayal of the previous nights whisky. Benjamin and Bella had both demanded his presence- though not for lack of company. He was meant to be an errand boy, delivering food to two of his older siblings while his sister remained in the hospital. The task itself was mind numbing, but once he'd dropped off the goods he took his leave, only lingering for a few minutes. The record shop was, maybe, his fourth stop of the day. He passed it on his way to the bar, where he'd review and settle 'documents' pertaining to family business. It was important that someone stayed on top of them. Their enterprise waited for nothing and no one, and if they'd slacked for even a second it might give the appearance of laziness, which no one in their family would stand for. The owner wasn't on any of his, or their lists, but George like to keep in the habit of popping up. People may not have feared him in the same way that they did Benjamin, but they knew him. Recognized his face and his affiliation, and understand that his word carried just as much weight as anyone else with the surname of Byrne. It was a reminder that they were always watching, and it often delighted him to see how their composure shifted once they'd realized. The girl working the counter was not familiar to him. He'd taken a glance, as if to commit her face to memory, but had moved on just as quickly into the folds of the aisles. George followed the alphabetized records until he'd reached the 'E', fingers dragging over both warn and unopened edges alike. "N'aye, Darlin'." The man had responded without missing a beat, thumb landing over the cover of a particular record before he snatched it up and slid it from its resting place. "If ye'r goin'ta be playin' shite from tha' dreadful language, may't I suggest somethin' that won' make ye'r customers wan'ta kill themselves?" He held the record up as he walked around the bins, laying the album Divenire by Ludovico Einaudi [XX] on the counter. "Drivin' money away's a good way ta lose ye'r job."

It took little time to find the bar within the building, knowing full well Iris was still reeling from her own emotional turmoil. Playing nice, poking fun and having a go at a dance with a handsome stranger was probably a good idea; but Iris wanted nothing to do with it. What she did want, was the tallest glass of Prosecco she could find, and a spot to plant herself for majority of the night. “Go on, make room,” She asked a faceless burly man next to her, as she wedged herself in between him and another. “Sorry, everyone wants a drink, and the servers are cleaned right out.”

"'Feck ye' mean the servers are 'cleaned right out'?" George's thick brogue had wrapped around his words, his aggravation rising to the surface. "And ye though it best to wedge ye'r way in here instead?" A rough chuckle had forced past his lips, though there was not any amusement to be found in his tone. "Next time ye'll find someone important to tell instead of runnin' ye'r mouth to any daft sod who'll listen, ay'?" The man opened his suit coat then, drawing a smoke from a pack that was hidden inside the front pocket, "Now ay've got to go an break fingers f'er makin' us look bad." He tilted his head into the direction of the detective, vibrant blues coming in and out of focus as he blinked surreptitiously, "Am only kiddin', darlin'. Don' worry ye'r pretty head."

          Helena could feel the throbbing in her head when she first woke up, groaning softly as she rolled over and placed her face into her pillow, trying to gain strength to get her ass out of bed and walk downstairs to grab a glass of water or maybe a gallon. The brunette knew she was either going to run into one of her older siblings who tend to be jerks whenever one of them was hungover, hell she even joined in when she knew @georgebyrne was hungover as well. Helena slipped on a white sweater over her head and walked down the steps, her eyes squinting to see the light peaking through the windows as she strolled into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and walked over towards the fridge. “Please–don’t you dare annoy me, I feel like I am getting hit with a hammer.” 

George heard the uneven patter of sleepy steps come down the stairs before he'd seen Helena come around the corner. He wasn't around when she'd gotten in last night, or was it this morning? But it was the weekend, and he knew he baby sister. If she wasn't rolling to the fridge still slightly drunk and regretting the last round of shots, he'd owe himself ten dollars. "Aw, Hel, ye' wound me." The youngest of the Byrne brothers slung himself over the back of the couch, mimicking the motion of being shot. The he rolled off, in a way that was slightly reminiscent of a snake, and seemed to slither his way toward his hungover sister. "So who was it that got ye' all liquored up?" There was a good chance George was already considering which bat he'd use to blow the blokes knees out.

jensen.

If there was one thing that his family could count on, it was that George was continuously in and out. The man wasn't the type to sit cooped up, mulling over the books for hours on end. He'd had his routine down for the morning-- Woke up, checked his messages, pawed over the pile of notes and cash that might have been left for him to tally. But after that it was anyone's guess. Georgie had a tendency to skip out to keep an eye on people. He'd check up on Helena (which was generally a daily occurrence whether she knew or not), or stop by Ben's. Sometimes Jens was there and sometimes he wasn't. George Byrne didn't like to idle. As if on queue, he made his way through the front door of the bar, hair slightly disheveled with his jacket buttoned tight. There was a distinct look of irritability written across his face. Timid glances would befall him and yet they disappeared just as quickly. George wasn't as likely as either of his brothers to snap at someone who'd stared or been listening in. Not when he was in a bar. He'd argue that there were better ways to conduct business than in public, but that was a whole can of worms that always ended in a brawl. "Evenin' mo dheartháireacha." George barked out, finding the bar where his brothers had already started drinking. The youngest of the Byrne brothers snapped his fingers at a body that sat a little to close for his liking. "Get lost, mate." He demanded, snatching up the stool and swiveling to face the other two when the guy had scampered off. "What sort o' trouble are ye' two gettin' on tonight?"