free from my roots…

It’s the fourth time he’s staying over, asleep on the couch. His voice is soft – buried in uneasy sleep, his brows furrowed as he pushes his face into the pillows. He sounds troubled. Mutters something else in a language she doesn’t speak, but it sounds Arabic, she thinks.

She sets the glass of water down on the coffee table for him, so he has it in the morning. Reaches out to tuck him back in, the fuzzy blanket soft against her fingers as she covers him with it – and then, one single word that sounds utterly lost:

“… Leila… ?” 

She wishes she could blame the whiskey for the way tears suddenly press against the back of her eyes, but that’s not it. Not all of it, anyway, though she’ll argue it bears the brunt of the blame, at least then. She doesn’t know enough about him, not yet, but she’s pieced parts of it together. Has already seen the similarities; wonders if he sees the same.

Her knuckles are gentle over the curve of his cheek. Elyas is still asleep; tension in his face easing. She walks upstairs on quiet feet, and thinks, not for the first time, about what life back in Texas might have been like had she had a sibling. If it would have been two of them walking out of hell. If she would have made it out at all.

Outside, dusk had begun muting the shades of a glimmering sunset – the yellows and pinks turning violet and then dark at the edges; pinprick stars cutting through the veil of thin-spun, fleeting clouds. Montana was warm, this time of year. Without so much as a breeze to rustle the trees, it made her think of other nights, far removed from her now-home. But the heat didn’t linger, here; didn’t stick to her skin like the oppressive feeling of someone else’s breath on her neck. Sometimes, she missed it. Sometimes, she wasn’t sure ever could.

Despite the temperature – or maybe because of it – the Last Drop was packed. Droplets of water clung stubbornly to the sides of cold bottles; ice cubes slowly melting as people found refuge at the bottom of the glass. Her black jeans were a uniform, at this point; as was the faded old tee she’d put on.

She found an open spot by the bar, next to––

“… Aster, right?” She’d seen her hanging around Will, before – one of the many mysterious residents at the likewise mysterious house that Will mysteriously lived in. ( –– But there were weirder things in the world than something that existed somewhere between a frat and a halfway house. )

when: early february where: the last drop with: @herwildwhisper·

It burned Nora to call someone for help. She’d stared at the keys taunting her from their location on the dashboard in her locked car for a good twenty minutes before cursing and whipping out her phone. She might have tried a locksmith, but the whole being as drunk as a skunk put a pin in that plan. Nora couldn’t even blame the liquor filling her up for her mistake. If anything, she had never been more grateful. Vodka kept her brain fuzzy and the shadows away. She needed that, especially after her phone call with her sister. Nora hadn’t wanted to answer her, but guilt won out after the third try, and she’d picked up.

She still heard her sister’s teary voice hours later.

Nora was grateful when the headlights from Mar’s car flashed in her face, even if embarrassment still hummed low under her skin. Fingers crossing that her co-worker wouldn’t think too poorly of her, she tried to straighten up as gracefully as possible in her current state.

“Sorry to call you so late.” Nora focused hard on keeping her voice from slurring, blinking repeatedly and forcing a tight smile. “I really appreciate you comin’ to get me.” -

The cold sting of February was familiar. Snow was heaped in banks and drifts by the roadside as Mar drove into town, and more began tumbling down from above, following invisible paths down to the earth below. There she was, posted by her car – Nora, shoulders straightening up, hair a streak of embers in the dark. “Hey,” Mar said, rolling down her window; heat damn-near shimmering as it met the outside chill. Nora was doing a fine job, but… pot, meet kettle. It might have been for the best that she’d ended up having to call someone. “–– ‘s alright,” Mar said, her own smile not quite so wound up as Nora’s, “hop in.”

Y’doin’ alright was a no-go: Nora fucking wasn’t. Of course she wasn’t. Who the fuck would be? Four months in without an answer.

She’d been there, hadn’t she, all those years ago – but she’d had ashes to spread. (And then things had gotten far, far more complicated – but it still beat the other option, no matter how much it fucking boggled her mind.)

So Nora wasn’t alright, not in general and certainly not now, and she was largely alone in the shithole town that had taken her kid, and her car had broken down and she’d had to call someone while justifiably drunk– and it wasn’t the same, but Mar thought she might feel it. An echo. And a selfish need, maybe, to change one small part of the outcome. And it wouldn’t fix jack shit, not really, not what needed fixing, but–

She knew this wouldn’t be easy. Knew that sitting across from Dante’s wife, widow, would feel as awful as it did when she found that note. Worse, even. He’s actually dead now. Before it was a concept, something she knew of but was never actively faced with. Now she is sitting in his old kitchen with Mar, greeting death like an old friend. Like she isn’t scared to death of it.

She has to tread carefully, she knows. She has no idea how much Mar knows of the truth. Snippets, everything, or only what she has cobbled together on her own over the years. Will’s fingers are knotted together in her lap, pulling nervously at each other. 

When Mar set the plates down, Will sighed in utter relief to have something else to occupy her nervous twitching. She picked up the pair of tongs that hung off of the side of the basket of scones, eyeing them passively for the two largest ones. She slipped one onto Mar’s plate, and the other onto hers. She didn’t know if she could eat; her stomach was rolling. She wondered, idly, if she was the only one who felt like they’d just stepped off of a rollercoaster. 

She took a small bite of her own scone, nodding at the right times, listening intently to Mar’s words. She knew some of this already, of course, but she pretended like she was hearing it all for the first time. 

She shouldn’t have come here. She knew Mar would ask. Will cleared her throat, returning her hands to her lap and looking up at Mar sadly. The best lie came from truth, right? It was borne of it, sifted through, the best parts picked out. “He never told me.” She answered honestly, then hesitated. She wanted to give Mar more than that. “He did….” She sighed again, resigning to her half-truth. “He was running, I think. But I don’t know what he was running from. I was never able to find out.” 

Mar slowly picked the scone apart with her fingers, digging into the crumbs as Will spoke; passing a piece of it to her mouth and dimly registering that A) she was hungry, and B) it was good. It cut through the ash in her mouth, but made the tears press harder against the back of her eyes.

But she held on. Steeled herself against it. A lifetime of practice made it easier than it should have been, but a grim part of her was grateful that she could keep herself from crying.

He was running.

But Will couldn’t answer her why.

“… I see.” God, it felt so fucking hollow. She didn’t know more now than she had a minute ago, and she should have known, should have seen the inevitable fact of it, but still it cut her down to the bone.

“I, uh.” Fuck. She wiped an errant tear with the back of her hand, the crumbling scone clutched between her fingers as she sniffed; lips tasting of salt. Mar cleared her throat. “–– ‘m sorry,” she said, willing her voice to not quiver, “this must be a lot to take in.” Maybe Will had been waiting all this time for him to show up, even if he’d been running from something, all those years ago. Maybe she’d seen the lights on, that first night, and hoped it was him. Before the gossip mill told her otherwise, and let her know she’d be bringing scones for a widow, and not her old friend.

“Thanks, Mar.” The table behind them was pretty full so he pulled the chair out as far as he could without disturbing them and slid in sideways, shooting her a grin to assuage the awkwardness.

“Yeah, she’s– we’re okay.” They picked up the menu, pointedly flicked through a few pages, then put it back down again. “It’s just– I guess I’m just worrying too much. But then I can’t tell her I’m worried about her, because then she’ll get worried about me, and I just–” Kenny broke off, looked away, and tried not to fiddle with the edges of the pages. “Sorry, yeah, we’re all good, she’s just working more is all. How’re you doing, anyway? It feels like it’s been forever.”

Nervous energy radiated off them like electricity – rogue sparks flickering as they tried to bury it. “I’m doing alright,” she said, giving Kenny a smile. “Think I might stop by the library soon; runnin’ out of books to read. Swear winter gets longer each year that passes.” She paused for a beat; eyed the menu in their hands, the way he kept his fingers still against the page.

Taking a deep breath, Dante forced himself to give a reassuring smile. “…thank you. I owe you this, but you don’t owe me this… you don’t owe me anything, at this point…”

Okay, so this was happening. Someone would have to fill her in once he was… wolfy. “People wanted to kill me… because of what I am, and what I can do. I thought I threw them off my trail around the time we met. As for why I ran, didn’t come back for you… it’ll al become clear…”

Hopefully. He didn’t want to ‘out’ any of the others, though. Who would help explain? Help get him back to himself. Will was the first person to come to mind, but now that she was the pack leader… could he do that to her? Put her in that position? How would all the others react to her revealing, if not their identities, the fact they existed.

It was triggered by extreme changes in temperature…  but he had never attempted anything like this before. Intentionally trigger the change, try to go back and forth. So close to Winter, too. This was probably the smartest idea, but.

The motel had a cheap sauna. Hopefully that would get him back to himself. As for how to lower his temperature? That would be trickier. An ice bath might do the trick, but then how to get him inside the sauna? …And to ensure he wouldn’t escape? He was confident he wouldn’t hurt her, but all the same, she should have the means to protect herself. Just in case.

_

Because of what he was, Dante said. How the fuck had she missed it? What was he? What had she overlooked? Her mind said organized crime, but.. that didn’t quite fit the bill, either. But she needed to know. And she needed to text Sam, let him know where she’d gone–

but there they were, at the motel, its blinking sign all-too-familiar in the winter dark. Ten minutes or ten years; she wasn’t sure how long it had been. None of it felt… real. Dante was alive. Was beside her, breathing and walking and explicitly living. 

It was just that he’d been dead for almost nine years.

What the fuck.

She let him take lead; followed his steps, tried not to lose herself in the utter clusterfuck of the fact that he was alive. Forgot to text anyone.

His motel room didn’t look all that different from the ones she’d frequented prior. Which– she had to tell him that, too. That she’d.. that she’d found someone else. That she’d moved on. Eight years, but she felt guilty. Hadn’t expected to ever see him again, and yet shame still tore away at her, now.

How was she supposed to–

“I, uh. I’m seeing someone. Someone else.” Mar cleared her throat.

( TW: animal attack )

Dusk settled over the valley like blue fog – slow and heady, the light fading into the canopy. She’d set up camp by the water: a tent on a decent patch of grass, a small bonfire set up near the riverbed, logs steady on the rocks. The river had worn itself down into an almost quiet creek, water flowing unhurried over the smooth stones.

Flames ate away at the wood, embers sparking into the evening air. She’d set up her two chairs, more than aware that she’d likely get company: Sloan had a way of finding her, no matter how deep into the woods she went. Deliberately, she’d chosen a spot that didn’t typically have a lot of wildlife frequenting it – whatever fish were caught in the slow-moving river would already be lost to pools further up, and though she’d seen a few deer while in the area, their trail was located further down.

“Hey, you,” she said, as she caught sight of her guest.

Hana nodded thoughtfully, listening as Mar spoke before following her lead and knocking snow off of her own boots as well. Not very gracefully, but hey, she tried. “Nine years ago? This is a pretty big change from Texas. Did you get used to it or do you still miss home sometimes?” Hana wasn’t really sure why she was so invested in learning more about Mar, but the woman was helpful and she could always use some of that in her life.

“No, it’s okay! Here, I have…” She rifled through her pockets a little clumsily before producing a crumpled up twenty dollar bill. “Here. I have this. I just need uh… Jinx has food and stuff to patch myself up with so I think I just need like… maybe I should get a Gatorade? That’s good for fevers, right? Electrolytes. And then… I’m sure I’ve got enough stuff to make it until she gets back.”

“Nah,” Mar said, and the answer slipped out a little too easy. She didn’t miss Texas – not the things she was supposed to miss, anyway. She’d never had them, if she was honest, but that was going a little too far for a conversation with a perfect stranger. 

She cleared her throat. Schooled her face into a smile that neatly covered the jagged edges they were so dangerously close to. “I’d already moved around a bunch before I got here, so I’d gotten… used to it, really. Came in from Tennessee.”

Jinx? She didn’t know them. Interesting name, though. If a little foreboding, maybe.

it actually did make sense to theo. it made perfect sense. how many years after her parents’ passing had she said a similar thing? grief wasn’t productive for her. if she allowed herself to be sad, it didn’t stop. that fear must be the same. she just hoped that it didn’t come out in the form of nightmares like theo’s had the tendency of doing. “it does.” she nodded.

it dawned on theo suddenly that much like her nightmares and parents, mar may not be particularly keen to relive such memories. “sorry if I overstepped.” she said quickly. theo liked mar. she liked her a lot actually. something about the woman was awfully familiar. theo didn’t want her uncanny ability to stick her foot directly and completely into her mouth to make mar even more scarce than she already was. “but you are always welcome at the quinn cabin. the scariest thing about it is how many of my grandmother’s blankets I still use. it could be a museum to the heinous fashion decisions of the seventies.”

theo did her best to return the smile. “or if you just need to call someone, I also own a phone.”

“No, it’s okay; we’re good. I’m the one that mentioned it,” Mar said, a shrug of her shoulders shifting her dark-brown hair. Quiet laughter passed her lips at Theo’s joke about Ms. Dora’s blankets, fond in tone. “–– I think that might be niche enough to actually work.”

“Pretty sure I’ve witnessed at least a few people up on Thistle Hill who might pay to go see a museum dedicated to vintage carpets.” Something heavy eased off her shoulders. Left them lighter than before; sank its sorry way to the floor on its own.

“… Thanks, Theo.” She smiled again, still a little cautious – but easier than before. A little more open. “–– You can call me too. For anything.”

     andrew hums, blues eyes narrowing the slightest at the mention of texas       recalling a week or two spent here and there in the state, whether on leave from the marines or with aiden. before everything went to shit. the thought of aiden snaps the pleasant memories away.     “  a little deeper than you. alabama.  ”     and mississippi, a life lived in halves. childhood and adolescence in mississippi. adulthood in alabama. constantly crossing the borders of the twin states time and again, whether by force of family or himself. whenever he felt like it as soon as he could.     “  how long’ve you been here? you’re a lil dull on the edges.  ”

“Eight years, almost exact.” March, 2011. What a fucking year. “So… ‘s been a while. Never went back, either.” She’d stayed put in Montana ever since she got there, more or less. But her roots had never felt stable. Had never settled easy into the soil. And yet she’d spent eight whole years in the same little town, chasing down a ghost. Christ.

Allegra offered up a small shrug, fidgeting in their seat as they bit back annoyance at the questions. Humans made small talk, right? They know they used to, used to be able to talk in polite bullshit with someone seemingly endlessly, but it felt forced now. It put them on edge and it took everything in them not to grit their teeth. “History, mostly,” they muttered, not wanting to specify that it was modern history. “A lot of TIME Magazine.” Once more they shrugged, taking note of the name offered and unclenching their jaw to respond, “Allegra.” They debated not answering the question, but that would likely lead to more suspicion rather than less, right? “New enough, I guess. You a local?” they asked, wanting to turn the conversation back onto Mar. 

_

She nodded at their muttered answer; their nervousness not escaping her notice. She could sympathise with it… but it still put her on edge, though she was doing a good job of hiding it. No sudden movements. Sit still. It all reminded her too much of herself, years removed. "Nah,” Mar said, “I’m not. Moved here about nine years ago.” 

“Moved in from Tennessee, but I’m from Texas.” What about you? That was the natural response, wasn’t it. The non-rude one – and yet she felt it would only make the conversation more tense. Hell, most of the questions she could think of that would otherwise be natural made her feel like she’d be sinking the conversation. Whether it was projection or insight… she couldn’t say.

when: early December 2019 where: The Last Drop with: open / @shiverstarters·

The wind is brutal, he can hear it still over the dull roar of the drunken conversation that surrounds him. Halfheartedly he entertains a customer a little too eager, but his mind drifts to the cold outside. It is hopefully not too apparent that he does not give a single shit what the woman before him is saying. Instead, He thinks about how this may be one of his last nights he can work this winter. The threat of the change is too close, his skin feels too tight — even here, warmed by bodies. That used to scare him. How animal he could feel between these people too human. But it feels like a far away thought now.

The woman slaps a five dollar bill down on the table and he tries not to react outright. The small snort of a laugh still manages to weasel its way from his mouth. He certainly hadn’t tried hard enough for that kind of tip. She’s gone already though, and he’s pretty sure on the napkin next to him is a phone number. Still he pockets the money, and lets the napkin ‘accidentally’ slip to the floor. 

“How can I — oh” Elyas’s face breaks out into a grin. “You looking for trouble?”

_

She watches Elyas expend close to no effort before a fiver and a number’s left behind for him, his mind clearly somewhere else for the entirety of the (one-sided) conversation. “Me? Nah,” she says, cocking her head to the side as she looks at him, and then at the napkin that lays forlornly on the floor. 

“But I’m pretty sure those dimples of yours are gonna land you in some, one day,” she says. It passes for teasing. Those same dimples will probably get him right out of it again, but they both know that.

when: spring 2012 where: blackrock state park open to: @herwildwhisper

Charlie and Mar sit in Charlie’s office– although to call it an office would be an understatement and an insult to offices everywhere. In reality, it’s the back room of the Blackrock State Park’s staff building: a tiny, nearly-forgotten addition tucked in between vending machines and lockers where Charlie signs checks and otherwise tries her best to avoid it. A photo of Marcus is the only thing on the desk that makes it visibly hers. She catches Mar looking at it– or her mind tricks her into thinking Mar is looking at it– and Charlie clears her throat.

“My husband,” Charlie tells Mar, momentarily forgetting why she called her here in the first place. “Marcus,” she continues, though she knows she hadn’t asked. The previous winter marks a year since he died, and she still doesn’t talk about him much– if at all. Almost everyone knows better than to ask. Mar wouldn’t, of course. She wasn’t here when it happened. Perhaps that’s why Charlie tells her. 

“He died a year ago. Liver cancer,” she says, giving Mar the same lie she gave nearly everyone else. Still, it pains her to do it. At least what follows is the truth: “I knew it was coming, and still…” she trails off and shrugs, despite herself.

–

"I, uh… I’m sorry,” she says. “For your loss.” Does it sound as empty in Charlie’s ears as it still does in hers? And yet there’s nothing else to say, is there. For what it’s worth, she is sorry. But platitudes won’t bring anyone back. Maybe that’s grief talking, but it’s hard to tell the difference, even now. Especially now, maybe, with Charlie opening up about something that hits harder than she thinks Charlie knew it would.

Her own ring weighs heavy against her chest, hidden by the neck of her sweater – until she reaches in, pulls the chain out. It feels like the world’s worst show me yours, I’ll show you mine – barely commiserating; more like some fucked up club membership.

“Liver cancer sounds… fuckin’ awful,” she says, because it does, and because words are not her friend, right now. They’ve never been. A year ago… she’d just about gotten to town. Wouldn’t have known Charlie.

“Mine went missing,” she says. Maybe it’s weird, but it feels right – Charlie opened up, and so.. she should, too. “And then, uh. They found him.” She knows it looks stupid – or maybe she thinks it looks stupid: she’s too young to be a widow, and yet here she is. And there Charlie is. And maybe there’s some things that make a little more sense now, prickling in the back of her head.

when: December2019 where: The Last Drop who: open to all @shiverstarters

Generally, Rory wasn’t one to try and start up conversations with the people sitting around them at the bar. But then again, they also weren’t one to find themselves out drinking in The Last Drop on an open mic night. Well, at least not anymore anyway. With an influx of Christmas parties, this past week at work had been hell and with Friday off (a Christmas miracle, if ever they saw one) and no plans (other than perhaps a Netflix binge with two men by the name of Ben and Jerry), it felt about time to brave the bar once more. Possibly even find a warm body for the night too –if there was anyone around as desperate as they were. As it stood, things were getting busier and that was never a bad sign.

Taking a (hefty) sip of bourbon for Dutch courage, they decided to do something and turned their attention to the figure on their right. A lone singer wailed on the stage at that point and Rory visibly winced as the woman tried (very unsuccessfully)to hit a high note. It was with that that they let out a light chuckle.

“Enjoying the show tonight then?” They forced a smile, as naturally as they could (in spite of the bubble of nerves in their stomach), and leant across the bar top. “Or do you want another drink to tide you over until the next singer comes on? God knows that I need something strong to get through more of this.”

_

“Oh, I think… enjoy’s a little much,” Mar said, amusement flickering in her eyes as her gaze went from Rory to the singer on stage and back again. In her hand was a tumbler – whiskey sour, nothing left but foam at the bottom of the glass. “Entertained, though? Yes.” She pressed her knuckles down against the counter, wincing as the mic whined.

“Yeah. Shots?”

         andrew sets the boxes in his hands down on a nearby table and snatches his sandwich back from being carted off to another part of the barn as another volunteer swoops by. with that , he’s got nothing left to occupy himself with. has to turn his attention back to mar , blue eyes sweeping over the face quietly at the reassurance of how she’s doing. he’d like to think he knows her well enough to know if she’s lying , but that’s not entirely true. 

he’d like to think that she knows she doesn’t have to lie to him , that she can trust him regardless of anything else going on. hopes that she knows she can.

“  voluntold ,  ”     he answers , opens the sandwich bag. offers her the other half.     “  old man dibiase beat me to the punch though. his wife’s on the committee. i figure this beats makin’ sure all his fences are mended ‘n shit. you a better soul than me?  ”

She eyes the sandwich, and figures, hey. She should, in fact, eat something – might as well. Her finger brushes against his as she reaches in, and she does not think about it–

“Hmm,” she says, lips becoming a line as she mock-thinks about it, green eyes fastened on his blue. “Nah. Don’t think so.” Half-teasing, trying for something light. Getting there, she thinks. “Got voluntold as well, but with each year that passes, ’s a little heavier on the volun-part.”