good luck with that

❛ PERKS, ❜ they echo, a faint edge of amusement touching the word. ❛ sometimes. ❜ their attention shifts away from the music, back to damon. ❛ mostly, it means hearing things you wish you hadn’t. ❜ fragments of conversations, the obnoxious crunch of a potato chip, animals rustling the walls. but they will let him think of music. 

rylan’s gaze follows his gesture toward the ferris wheel, watching its slow rotation above the rooftops. lights blink against the dark, bright enough to make the whole thing seem almost cheerful. almost. 

they eye the corn dog cart dubiously. ❛ it’s not something i do, no. ❜  no part of the ‘food’ smells natural. ❛ but i appreciate the warning. and as for the festival… ❜ beyond them, families laugh. couples brush shoulders on the swinging chairs. children drag tired parents toward games they have already lost twice. ❛ it depends what you expect it to do. ❜

the band reaches a crescendo, and rylan’s jaw flexes against the crackle of the speakers. ❛ one year, a woman fainted getting off the ferris wheel. when she fell, her hair got caught in the spokes. were it not for the mechanic’s vigilance, she might have died. ❜

the ferris wheel completes another turn.

❛ another year, a man caught his wife cheating. it took three people to stop him from breaking the boyfriend’s jaw. ❜

their eyes settle on damon again. ❛ it's a festival, not a cure. people enjoy it because it gives them permission to pretend for a little while… but if you’re expecting it to make you happy, i suspect you’re going to be disappointed. ❜

But he couldn’t scratch out the stage directions on the hunger’s (whom Damon knew called the shots here) director script. Whatever he did was going to be half in the dark.

So when Rylan commented on hearing things they wished they hadn’t, Damon voiced his unwavering agreement: “I can imagine that, for some, that constant experience would wear them down.” What ground down one could be another’s cure. (But what hearing this place in its truth would cure in Damon… he couldn’t say. Maybe his constant discomfort.)

Damon laughed at Rylan’s expression when they looked toward the corn dog cart. But Rylan’s subsequent remarks went down his throat like something bitterly medicinal—the truth without any doubt.

The ferris wheel story… Was that a cosmic parallel of Hawthorne Psychology? Horrifying possessions (the hair, stuck fast); thankless work (what the mechanic had been doing prior); becoming a “hero” because you were finally, and regrettably, needed (the mechanic’s efforts saving the day).

What was Damon doing in Magnolia Creek but tasting worth (self-worth) because of the town’s distress?

His expression went from sober to grim, though, at the account of the discovered affair. “I bet that scared the people close by,” he murmured; and it occurred to him then that, when the stakes were that high, one person (three people here) to stop violence was good. No matter if that person went home satisfied with themself.

No matter if, like Damon, they really fucking needed that satisfaction.

Damon listened to Rylan’s matter-of-fact conclusion to the explanation and replied:

“I’ve never been in a place like Magnolia Creek.” His face was likely solemn as a tomb. “I’ve worked for a long time, privately, professionally, to understand my… well, to be closer to understanding my friends. My family. My neighbors. My community. Magnolia Creek is an inverted sort of community, though; all the hard parts of a life are assumed, and the easy parts are reliably… unreal. Most towns I’ve lived in forewent hard truths for distractions—just like this. Like you’re telling me, Rylan. But people in those places dug for hard truths sometimes, and, well, there they lay.

“No one’s even trying to dig here. Almost like it’s understood that… that something’s wrong? Is that strange of me to think?

“My point is.” Damon met Rylan’s eyes. “I feel the hurt in all this… I wish I didn’t, because it’s uncomfortable, but I do.” He sighed heavily. “I know you’re not—well, I guess I don’t ‘know’ know, but I don’t believe you’re a mind reader. But help me out. How deep does that discomfort run in everyone? And where are its roots?”

alistair takes a lot of satisfaction in the confusion that floods damon’s face and subsequently covers up; it wasn’t what he was aiming for, but knocking him off balance with confusion was just as good as any other reaction. and as damon speaks, his satisfaction only grows, i meant nothing by bringing up my job. alistair rolls his eyes, by his thought process, if damon had meant nothing by it, then he had no reason to bring it up. anyone, degreed or not, could ask how someone was feeling. their job didn’t make them anymore trust worthy than the next. “by all means, make yourself clear.” he waves his hand as if to give the other permission to continue, corner of his eyes crinkling at damon’s phrasing once again. somehow the way damon says it, ‘you’re making an excellent case, alistair. I see that now. let me make myself clear here,” makes alistair feel like he’s a kindergartner being reprimanded by an adult. he doesn’t like it, but he takes it, teeth sharp in his mouth, ready for his turn to bite again. but, damon’s next words dim the smugness inside instead. everyone’s telling me left and right— alistair pryde has changed. he’s somebody else. even if it’s true, it’s something alistair doesn’t like to hear. the constant reminder that he isn’t who people wanted back. he doesn’t interrupt though, unwanted reminder not yet enough to break him away from his usual tactics— which proves to be a mistake.

He looked sullen. The kind of sullen that happens when you’ve been through a lot (and by God had Alistair); the kind that burns inside.

Damon had a feeling Alistair wouldn’t mock him again. The realization… wasn’t positive. A moment prior, all Damon would’ve wished for would’ve been to disrupt Alistair’s nastiness. To walk a different path. Now… well, Alistair still seemed angry, but in muted colors. Something about that awful dimming of the spirit—that quenching of the fire—hurt Damon bad.

Then Alistair spoke, and something about the situation just… clicked into place.

as footsteps sounded after the open door of the rusty nail, and stopped at the stool next to her, odette did not move her body or look at the person who sat down next to her. her eyes watched him in the mirrored reflection behind the bar only for a moment, before turning her attention towards the cigarette in her hand and the ash that she flicked into the tray before them.

was he going to ignore her, like the rest of the people in this bar? no... if he planned to ignore her, he'd sit elsewhere. the rest of the patrons had learned to give her a wide birth when she was here, but not him.

the moment he spoke, she exhaled the smoke and turned just slightly to look at him. the therapist... she remembered now. "doctor graham, correct?" she asked, curious what he could possibly want with her. well, for only a moment, before realizing just how intriguing meeting a vampire might be to a human. one, who she suspected, may not have known about the supernatural world until recently.

the request for a recommendation was easy territory, nothing for her to be wary of. so she answered honestly. "an old fashioned." she motioned towards her drink, the orange peel inside of the brown liquor too old to allow for an enjoyable flavor. "but this place isn't well versed in the art of cocktails. i'd just look for what's on tap." she had never been one for beer, but it was cheap enough to not be a let down when you drank it.

When Odette gestured toward her drink, identifying it as an old-fashioned, Damon let himself stare at the brown liquid like it would eventually yield some consequence. …Give him advice like a crystal ball, maybe. The fact was that Damon had had a very hard day. For some, strange reason—and this had only really become obvious last night, and the morning after—Damon had thought Mayor White (whom he didn’t know much about) would tell the truth. What would that have done? Cause mass hysteria? Damon almost didn’t care, disillusioned as he was with the lack of progress. The address at the square yesterday simply could’ve done more, he felt keenly—made Magnolia Creek more cautious. Steered them, if not towards the supernatural (which was hard to buy), then towards constructive solutions rather than some curfew.

He didn’t know what would happen to Magnolia Creek now. He felt frightened; he felt responsibility settle over him like the earth upon Atlas’s shoulders.

He wondered if Odette, old as she purportedly was, knew that feeling…

At Odette’s question, Damon held up his hands. “Oh, you read my mind, didn’t you,” he said with a good-natured grin. “And I did want your drink recommendation, no—” A bartender was hovering near Damon; realizing she was anticipating serving him, he just asked for a regular Budweiser. “No matter if that’s trite,” he finished.

He paused. “I don’t mean to jump from ‘sunny day’ to ‘thunder and lightning’ type mood on you,” he told Odette, feeling his facial muscles go taut. Now she could probably see the past twenty-four hours in Damon’s expression. “But… I was at the mayor’s address, I had a tough conversation right after, I’ve been going through it.

“Truth be told,” he explained steadily to Odette, “I’m deathly curious about you. You have zero obligation to tell me a thing; and… I don’t think I’ll be pushy with questions, either. That’s not, from what I’ve seen, your style: tolerating whoever’s miles behind you. I respect that; I really do.”

Damon accepted the Budweiser from the bartender and took a sip. “I’d love your opinion, though,” he said honestly. “Your wisdom? What’s it like, being responsible for something huge? And how do you keep from cracking under it?” He faintly smiled. “That’s something I just know you’ve been through before.”

the little bell rings as she pushes through the door, making a beeline for the succulent section towards the register. she hears a familiar voice and looks up to see a brilliant smile, her name spoken in a tone that softens her expression.

"it's good to see you, damon," she greets, a genuine smile on her face. although it's been several years, she remembers just how difficult it was to be a new face in this town, and he's handling it with grace. she decides to focus on his latter questions, not quite sure how to answer the how have you been doing question honestly. "that's so sweet of you. i'm sure she'll love them. they're a very positive flower." the doctor's name is familiar, although she hasn't met the woman face to face. "i know the name, but i don't believe we've met yet. i think she does visits at the school at times, though."

It didn’t escape Damon that Lettie wasn’t talking about her. Damon liked Lettie a lot, and he also liked that she defined her own role in things—like in this conversation, for example. So Damon didn’t pry.

They’re a very positive flower, Lettie had said in reference to what Damon had bought. Damon grinned and replied, “I agree completely! And I know these are going straight to the lobby for everyone to see; Dr. Venkatesh likes to spread that cheer, I think. Positivity is the name of the game in a therapist’s office. Are there any plants in your library? Even, you know, the tired-looking potted kind?”

THE HARBOR BREEZE CARESSES XINGYU’S FACE, kisses his forehead as if in pity for all that’s happened since the last time he came by with lettie.  xingyu’s doctor had been advising him to take walks. assured him that even if it hurt, it was better to stay mobile than to keep laying down, no matter how good it felt to stay still and lie on his back. for your lungs, the doctor had told him. you’re still young, you got a lot of life ahead of you, you know? don’t wanna sour that. the doctor’s words nearly made him think of maroon peak. make a difference? alistair had spat back, mocking his own words. we might not all come back, lily had announced. logic dictates that he should take all of that life ahead of him with two hands and walk away, that his bruised cheek and aching ribs should be warning enough to get the hell out of magnolia creek before something worse happens.  and yet. he walks further down the harbor, the wooden planks of the pier creak underneath him, when spots the figure by the railing, staring out at the boats and the blue-gray expanse. the unfamiliar face in town who has begun to make his presence known amongst the rest of the group. he still had no idea what to make of damon graham — who he really was beyond his self-proclaimed title, why he had decided to join them, how much he really knew about magnolia creek or the mission ahead.  he approaches, his footsteps declaring his presence before he can say any form of greeting. he gives damon a small smile. “yes, damon. i remember,” he nods, sincere. he’s been fortunately good with remembering names and faces. “good to see you again.” he’s had no reason to particularly dislike him; rather, it was more that xingyu has always felt like he’s had a thumb to the pulse of magnolia creek, and now it seemed damon’s arrival had shifted the rhythm ever so slightly, and he needs to figure out if that’s for better or for worse.

When Xingyu nodded at the docks in view of this part of the pier, Damon whistled. “What a dream,” he said sincerely. “The waves outside your back door. The peacefulness.” Damon took a step closer to Xingyu. “I’m a big ‘story’ guy. I love other people’s lives, told the way they saw it… What’s something interesting that happened to you on this little coast?”

In response to Xingyu’s question, Damon replied, “I’ve been learning how to jog.” He laughed briskly. “I say ‘learning’ because I think it’s a skill. Pacing yourself, pushing yourself. Setting goals… setting new ones. I’m a real beginner, don’t get me wrong—but. I’m wise enough to know when to take in the view.”

Damon let the smile dissolve. “I wasn’t able to tell you when I met the group—I’m sorry about your ribs, Xingyu. I’ve heard that that hurts like nothing else. Are you managing it okay?”

“that is not what i said!” ali grabs his hair as he speaks with an exasperated half-smile half-frown at the words being put in his mouth by the others. they were all crammed into “their” booth at fryday’s again: ali, matteo, elias, and lily on one side; thalia, ece, and naomi on the other all of them waiting for their food and first round of milkshakes and drinks to come. “that is exactly what you said, ali.” lily shoots back in a serious tone and clears her throat to mimic him, “if ece spent half as much time training as she did on her hair, she’d be superwoman.” matteo snorts his agreement and ece glares at him and ali, one after the other. “really?”  “she’s lying. why are you lying, lily, you know that’s not what i meant!” “then what did you mean?” “what i said was that if we could find a way to keep your hair perfect during training then you would…” he places his hand over his mouth, realization setting in, “nothing i say is going to make this better… i meant it as a compliment, i didn’t mean for it to sound like—”

Had he done what he’d come over there to do? Yes and no—what he’d envisioned doing had been giving Alistair encouragement after waking him up. Anyone would have. It had to suck, realizing that you’d fallen asleep in a public space. It had to mean something about how your day prior had been going. Damon had wanted to make it suck less.

But when Alistair smiled—and chuckled, a sound that sent a wave of adrenaline through Damon’s system—Damon knew there would be no kindness exchanged, no “fighting spirit” restored. The fighting spirit had been replaced—by something a little more lethal.

Damon’s expression flickered briefly at Alistair’s words. (...you need a better slogan.) What flooded his face, and was abruptly covered up: confusion of the highest degree. He… he hadn’t come close to his therapist persona, had he? He walked back through the interaction: shaking Alistair’s forearm, introducing himself, sharing a bit about him to let Alistair know he could trust him. At no point, and with no insinuation, had Damon crossed a line. Alistair had to be joking, right?

That smile. That chuckle. He wasn’t.

RYLAN WOVE THROUGH THE CROWD, a backpack slung loosely over their shoulder. it was filled with heavy silver chains, yet the ease with which they carried it wouldn’t betray as much. their supplier had asked to meet in public, and rylan hadn’t begrudged them. as far as supply runs went, a hundred pounds of silver chain was surprisingly inconspicuous.

they looked up when they heard purposeful footsteps approaching, meeting damon with a raised brow.

right, the head doctor. rylan still wasn't sure what to make of him. what were the stakes for a therapist who happened to understand the nuances of possession? and, crucially, they weren’t certain what he might make of them…

their headspace was something of a minefield, more so as of late, and they weren’t eager to unpack it. as far as they were concerned, he was just as likely to dissect their thoughts as he was to ask about the weather.

 ❛ i don’t mind it… damon, the possession expert. ❜ the possession expert. in time, he might have cause to prove his expertise. for now, they entertained his small talk. ❛ they could stand to tune their bass a bit better. ❜ sound reached them more sharply than it had when they were human; any note out of key or string improperly strung was immediately apparent. as it stood, they winced at every third note.

 ❛ i’m a fan of music when it’s played well. ❜ one of the few luxuries immortality offered was the opportunity to hear the greats of each decade perform. they regarded him for a moment. ❛ are you enjoying it? ❜

Damon’s brows inadvertently rose at the comment on the tuning. “Good ear,” he said, meaning it both ways—physically and musically. “I wish I had that gift. Musically, I could—well, my older brother Al has perfect pitch. I’ve always envied him for that. And, though I’m sure it’s hard sometimes, keen hearing has its perks.” Damon tried not to harbor vices… but the one he couldn’t break himself of was eavesdropping.

Damon laughed when Rylan not-so-subtly insulted the group on stage. “You know,” he said. Damon gestured toward the towering ferris wheel close by. “I thought I’d get it more. The ferris wheel, and the snacks, and the live music. I thought, If this festival really is a miracle cure for everything, I’d like to bask in it for a little while. But it’s not hitting home for me, Rylan. I wish I were loving this, but I’m not.” He cast his gaze toward the corn dog booth and added, “Do not get a corn dog, whatever you do. If that is something you’d do.”

He asked them, “Does the Summer Festival usually… pack more of a punch?”

It was a common thing, as a therapist (especially a therapist in training), to be on the defensive. Your education, your ideas, your right to “pass judgment”—everything was on the chopping block for the patient who wanted to hear something else. Matteo wasn’t a patient, though, wasn’t even a friend. Matteo was a slayer embroiled in a life-or-death battle who personally took issue with Damon. And as the words left Matteo’s mouth—some little piece of paper on the wall telling you you’re allowed to crawl around inside everybody’s head—Damon could see that this didn’t end in the men’s room. This ended when one of them was gone, the tensions gone with them. This didn’t end at all.

What, Damon thought as Matteo said, Don’t act fucking smart with me, was worse than discovering an addiction? (As Damon’s experience, well-worn read of people, and gut feeling shrieked that he had?)

Having an enemy.

Damon was not in the business of backing down from a conversation; neither was he in the business of lighting fuses. So, as Matteo glared and as Damon’s heart stuttered a rapid tempo, he held Matteo’s gaze evenly. Said, “Sorry about your head.”

Damon continued: “I don’t for a second confuse my job with my personal observations. I do, thanks to the little piece of paper on some wall, get to be a therapist. I have the right to live and work in Magnolia Creek as a therapist. But, off the record, I’ve made two observations that I’ll—again—keep between you and me. Just Damon. No crawling around anywhere.

“First is that, based on your body language when I came in, you really needed that Tylenol. Second is that you would’ve told me I was ‘acting smart’ for less than this. And as it happens, I’m glad it was now.

“Because we’re in private, and I can say very bluntly: I don’t take shit. I’m happy you’ve got a label for everything I do—but Matteo, if you speak to me like that again, my observations will not come from a charitable place anymore and then where will we be?” Damon glowered back at Matteo. “That is, of course, your choice.”

He asked Olivia, “Where would you assume this thing can be damaged?”

Damon listened to Olivia’s response to the naming comment. “Sorry about your complexes, Herron,” he said obligingly. “Or congratulations on not getting Electra. You’re right—thank God.” Damon added, “Bear’s third in the lineup, and I’m… fourth. So here’s what happened—sparing you the messy argument details, my parents wanted to go ABCD. They had no names in common for B, though, so skipped it for C. When B came around again? They made something up that they could appreciate. I just got a regular D name.”

“The birthday started with five minutes—no kidding! No kidding! Five minutes of dead silence. We came from somewhere else, and nobody was in the mood. Imagine nobody wanting to celebrate your birthday because of other shit. Well, Jake put on Airplane—and somehow changed people’s minds. No way the movie isn’t magic.”

Damon froze. “God. No one’s ever asked me which Clue ending I prefer.” He held up a finger. “One second… Okay. Okay. I’m going with the Mrs. Peacock ending, where she did it all. I think Eileen Brennan stole the show. You?”

“Blood Diner.” He’d never heard of it—but, for Olivia’s sake, he would look for it. This wise-cracker and, Damon could tell, deep thinker wouldn’t steer him wrong. “Riddle me this. I’ve been thinking my life just turned into a horror movie, which I assume that is, when I got to town. Would you rather be in Blood Diner or whatever the hell is happening to us?”

Damon still knew nothing about banshees—but this would tell him everything he needed to know about Olivia.

Maybe it was consistency that some folks took solace in — the idea of ‘yes, if I know nothing else, I know this will happen tomorrow; if I do not know what my spouse really thinks of me, I know my alarm will go off at 7am; if I do not know the results of my medical test, I know I will be heading to work at 8:45am; if I do not know whether there is a god or a black abyss, I know I will have to file end of quarter taxes tomorrow.’ Yes, perhaps that was appealing to some of the population — she could understand that! But the grey area, the area of not knowing, was where she found she thrived.

…up until a few weeks prior — up until the night that Lettie had filled her in on. The Hunger had been more present than ever — both in her personal life and in the entire town! Death was shaking its hand in the dead of night more often, the both of them pressing against her, suffocating her…

Some sense of normalcy would do no harm, especially in the midst of a storm!

Indeed, in the middle of Creek Video with Airplane in one hand and Clue in the other, the biggest question on her mind was simply which of the two to rent! How refreshing!

She could always rent both… Storms always did lead to a fine movie experience… Hell, maybe she could even add to the collection and make a whole night of—

She was torn from her well of deep thoughts by… someone she vaguely recognized (what else was new? She sometimes felt like her entire life was just pretending to know someone until she’d picked up enough context clues…)

— Oh, thank god, he introduced himself!

“Well, if there’s ever a time to stay in and watch a party of murderers and madames and corrupt politicians pretend to make out with corpses,” she began, holding up Clue, “it’s a stormy night.” What a great scene…

“‘Possession expert’? Y’know, you don’t strike me as a man of the cloth.” Magnolia Creek getting their very own exorcist? What a concept! “I mean, Damon is pretty close to Damien.” Now if only she also had The Omen in her stack!

“Olivia Herron — decidedly not a possession expert.” And she hoped she never would be — she was close enough with other dark forces, she didn’t need to add straight-from-Hell demons! (Wait — ‘Damon’ was also close to ‘demon’! These were the missed opportunities that kept Olivia awake at night…)

“Storm equals movie night and movie night equals —“ — she held up the tapes for Damon to read for himself. It was decided: she was going to make a night of it! “Labyrinth is a classic. Real shame — you never really hear about that Bowie guy anymore. It’s like he did one movie then just disappeared.” …Sometimes even Olivia couldn’t tell whether or not she was joking… “Probably in fantasy?”

After she’d introduced herself—though Damon had remembered her from before!—Damon said, “I love the last name Herron. It’s so expressive. My brother’s name is Bear—legally, from birth—and I feel that way about him, too.”

When Olivia held up the tapes, Damon leaned in. “Oh, Airplane is always a hit. I’ve seen Airplane save someone’s birthday party before. Of course, Clue is—do you know about the three endings? Most people know, right? You seem very aware of what happens in Clue; anyway, the video version has all three. I honest to God wish more movies did that, because one possibility just isn’t enough for me.”

Damon laughed hard at her comment about Bowie. “In the alternate ending of Labyrinth,” he replied, voice still quavering, “you find out that that was David Bowie. He knew his career just wasn’t powerful enough—he needed to branch out, become a goblin. Turn a baby into a goblin. That’ll show ‘em, David.”

Damon asked, “Are you renting both? If I were to rent another movie—you can recommend any genre, I’m not picky—what would you demand that I watch?”